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THE COMPLETE 

POETICAL WORKS AND LETTERS OF 

JOHN KEATS 

CambriDgc CrDifion 




/ . y/,,,yy,.ji(:u,/ /// /J/.9 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

€bc QiOcrsfiDc preys', «iramtirii)0c 






%3^ 



46(>5o 

COPYRIGHT, 1899, BV HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND CO. 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

TWO COPIES RI.CE1VED. 






i^ui/ : U (Ot)tl 




«ECOND COPY, 






EDITOR'S NOTE 

. HE period of Keats's poetical production was so brief, and he leaped so quickly 
the possession of his poetical powers, that almost any arrangement of his 
.-, Tvbich was orderly, would serve. Yet since Keats has left in all but a very 
1 y casos indication of the date of composition, and since even delicate intimations 
ot poetic growth in the case of so rare a genius are worth attention, I have endeav- 
ored to make the arrangement as nearly chronological as the evidence, chiefly 
obtainable from Keats's letters, will permit. The head-notes disclose all instances 
where I have had to fall back on conjecture. The adoption of this order has com- 
pelled me to disregard the grouping of the volumes published by Keats and the 
posthumous publication by editors, but for the information of students a biblio- 
graphical note, setting forth the historical order of publication, is given in the 
Appendix. 

The text of the poems published in Keats's three volumes has been carefully 
collated with copies of the first editions. I am indebted to Mr. F. H. Day for the 
opportunity of using the volumes of 1817 and 1820, and to Col. T. W. Higgin- 
sou for Endymion. In reprinting the posthumous poems I have followed some- 
times Lord Houghton in the Life, Letters and Literary Bem.ains of John Keats, 
London,- 1848, and the same editor's Aldine edition of 1876, sometimes Mr. 
Sidney Colvin in his Letters of John Keats, London, 1891, where so many of 
the poems are taken from Keats's own copy, and sometimes the text given by 
Mr. H. Buxton Forman in his careful four volume edition, London, 1883. There 
are a good many manuscripts, and these, together with the printed verses, have 
a variety of readings. All variations of consequence are noted in the Appendix ; 
it was beyond the scope of this series to give every minute alteration. For an ex- 
hf}' ;tive statement, the curious student is referred to the invaluable edition by 
7oriran. I have not deemed it indispensable to follow scrupulously the spell- 

_, nd punctuation even of the poems whose publication was supervised by Keats, 
1.1 it I have not wilfujly departed from either in accordance with any mere change 
oC fashion; the spelhng conforms to the accepted spelling of Keats's day; the 
capitalization is somewhat modified ; the punctuation is studied with reference to 
the legibility of the passage. 

For the prefatory notes I have been mainly indebted to Keats's letters, and have 

endeavored, as far as possible, to put the reader in possession of such light as 

Keatp himself throws on his composition. I have also, in pursuance of the plan 

:^.do}i*ed for the arrangement of the poems, indicated in each instance the date, 

y or approximately. In accordance with the general scheme of the Cam- 

e editions, these prefatory notes are rarely critical ; they are designed to be 



EDITOR'S NOTE 



rather historical and bibliographical. In the preparation of these notes, as also of 
the Notes and Illustrations in the Appendix, I must again acknowledge my great 
indebtedness to Mr. Forman. 

In undertaking to assemble Keats's Coiniplete Poetical Works, I have been 
aware that I was including some things which neither Keats nor any one else 
would call poetical. Yet besides the contribution which verse males to beauty, 
there is also the light which it throws on the poetical mind and "hiiacter. And 
since the volume of Keats's production is not large, and much of his posthumous 
poetry is rightly classed with his own acknowledged work, it seemed best to give 
everything, but to make the natural discrimination between the poetry in the body 
of the volume and that which follows in the division. Supplementary Verse. The 
personality of Keats is so vivid, that just as his friends in his lifetime and after 
his death carefully garnered every scrap which he wrote, so the friends created 
by his life and his poetry may be trusted to know what his imperishable verse is, 
and yet will handle affectionately even the toys he played with. 

Although I have endeavored to draw from Keats's letters such passages as tl irow 
direct light on his poetry, there yet remains an undefined scholia in the whole 1 od\ 
of his familiar correspondence. No attentive reader of Keats's letters will fail 
to find in these unstudied, spontaneous expressions of the poet's mind a lambent 
light playing all over the surface of his poetry, and therefore it is not a wide 
departure from the scheme of this series of poets to include, in the same volume 
with Keats's poems, a collection also of his letters. This collection is complete, 
though one or two brief notes will not be found here, because already printed in 
the headings to poems. I have been dependent for the text mainly upon Mr. 
Colvin, supplemented by the minute garnering of Mr. Forman. I have to thank 
Mr. John Gilmer Speed for his courtesy in permitting the use of letters whii ii 
he derived from the papers of his grandfather, Geoi'ge Keats. 

Cambridge, August, 1899. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



PAGE 
XV 



POEMS 



EARLY POEMS. 

Imitation of Spenser 

On Death 

To Chatterton 

To Byron 

' Woman ! when I behold thee flip- 
pant, VAIN ' 

To Some Ladies 

On receiving a Curious Shell and a 
Copy of Verses from the Same La- 
dies 

Written on the Day that Mr. Leigh 
Hunt left Prison .... 

To Hope 

Ode to Apollo 

Hymn to Apollo 

To a Young Lady who sent me a 
Laurel Crown .... 

Sonnet : ' How many bauds gild the 
lapses of time ' 

Sonnet : ' Keen, fitful gusts are 
whisp'king here and there ' 

Spenserian Stanza, written at the 
Close of Canto IL, Book V., of 
' The Faerie Queene ' . . . 

On leaving Some Friends at an 
Early Hour 

On first looking into Chapman's 
Homer 

Epistle to George Felton Mathew 

To : ' Hadst thou ltv'd in days 

of old' 

Sonnet: 'As from the darkening 
gloom a silver dove ' . . . 

Sonnet to Solitude .... 

Sonnet : ' To one who has been long 
IN CITY pent' 

To A Friend who sent me Some Roses 

Sonnet : ' Oh ! how I love, on a fair 
summer's eve' .... 

' I STOOD tiptoe upon A LITTLE HILL ' 

Sleep and Poetry .... 
Epistle to my Brother George . 
To my Brother George 



33 



33 



To 'Had I a man's fair form, 

then might my sighs' . 
Specimen of an Induction to a 

Poem 

Calidore: a Fragment . 
Epistle to Charles Cowden Clarke 
To My Brothers .... 
Addressed to Benjamn Robert 

Haydon. 

I. 'Great spirits now on earth 

ARE sojourning ' . . . . 

II. ' Highmindedness, a jealousy 

FOR good ' 

To Kosciusko 34 

To G. A. W 34 

Stanzas: 'In a drear-nighted De- 
cember' 34 

Written in Disgust of Vulgar Su- 
perstition 35 

Sonnet : ' Happy is England ! I could 
be content ' 35 

On the Grasshopper and Cricket 35 

Sonnet : ' After dark vapours have 
oppress'd our plains ' . 

Written on the Blank Space at the 
END OF Chaucer's Tale of ' The 
Floure and the Lefe' . 

On Seeing the Elgin Marbles 

To Haydon (with the preceding 
sonnet) 

To Leigh Hunt, Esq 

On the Sea 

Lines : ' Unfelt, unheard, unseen ' 37 

On 'Think not of it, sweet 

ONE, so' 38 

On a Picture of Leander . . 38 

On Leigh Hunt's Poem ' The Story 
OF RnnNi' 38 

Sonnet : ' When I have fears that 
i may cease to be ' . . . 39 

On seeing a Lock op Milton's Hair 39 

On sitting down to read ' King 
Lear' once again . . . .40 

Lines on the Mermaid Tavern . 40 



36 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



Robin Hood 41 

To THE Nile 41 

To Spenser 42 

Song written on a Blank Page in 
Beaumont and Fletcher's Works 
BETWEEN ' Cupid's Revenge ' and 
'The Two Noble Kinsmen' . 42 
Fragment : ' Welcome Joy and wel- 
come Sorrow' 42 

What the Thrush said ... 43 
In Answer to a Sonnet ending thus : 

' Dark eyes are dearer far 
Than those that mock the hyacinthine bell.' . 43 

To John Hamilton Reynolds . . 44 
The Human Seasons ... 44 

ENDYMION 45 

THE POEMS OF 1818-1819. 

.Isabella, or the Pot of Basil . 110 

'' To Homer 119 

Fragment op an Ode to Maia . 119 
Song : ' Hush, hush ! tread softly ! 

hush, hush, my dear ! ' . . . 120 
Verses written during a Tour in 
Scotland. 
I. On Visiting the Tomb of 

Burns 120 

II. To Ailsa Rock . , . .121 
in. Written in the Cottage 

where Burns was born . 121 
rV. At Fingal's Cave . . .122 
V. Written upon the Top of 

Ben Nevis .... 123 
Translation from a Sonnet of Ron- 
sard 123 

To A Lady seen for a Few Moments 

AT Vauxhall 123 

Fancy 124 

Ode : ' Bards of Passion and of 

Mirth' 125 

Song : ' I had a dove and the sweet 

dove died ' 125 

Ode on Melancholy .... 126 
The Eve of St. Agnes . . . 127 
Ode on a Grecian Urn . . . 134 
Ode on Indolence .... 135 
Sonnet: 'Why did I laugh to- 
night? No voice will tell' . 137 

Ode to Fanny 137 

A Dream, after reading Dante's 
Episode op Paolo and Francesca 138 
■^ La Belle Dame sans Merci . . 139 
i Chorus of Faxribs .... 140 
Faery Songs: 
I. Shed no tear! O sbced no 
tear! 141 



II. Ah ! woe is me ! poor silver- 
wing ! 14: 

On Fame 14: 

Another on Fame . . . .14! 

To Sleep 14'. 

Ode to Psyche .... 14'. 
Sonnet : ' Ip by dull rhymes our 

English must be chain'd' . . 14^ 
Ode to a Nightingale . . . 14< 
Lamia . . 14( 

TRAGEDIES. 

Otho the Great : a tragedy in five 
ACTS 15i 

King Stephen: a dramatic frag- 
ment 19i 

THE EVE OF ST. MARK . . 19( 

HYPERION: A FRAGMENT . . 19i 

TO AUTUMN 2ir 

VERSES TO FANNY BRAWNE. 

Sonnet: 'The day is gone and all 
ITS sweets are gone' . . .214 

Lines to Fanny 214 

To Fanny : ' I cry your mercy — 

PITY — LOVE — AY, LOVE ! ' . . 2H 

THE CAP AND BELLS; OR, THE 
JEALOUSIES 21( 

THE LAST SONNET . . . . 23S 
SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE. 
I. Hyperion: a Vision . . 23; 

II. Fragments: 

I. ' Where 's the Poet ? show 

HIM ! SHOW him ' . . .238 
II. Modern Love ... 238 

III. Fragment op 'The Castle 

Builder' 239 

IV. Extracts from an Opera : 

' O ! WERE I one op THE 

Olympian twelve ' . 23S 
Daisy's Song . . . .239 
Folly's Song . . .240 

'O, I AM FRIGHTEN'd with 

most hateful thoughts ! ' 240 
Song : ' The stranger 

lighted prom his steed ' 240 
' Asleep ! O sleep a little 

WHILE, WHITE PEARL ! ' . 240 

III. Familiar Verses : 
Stanzas to Miss Wylie ... 240 
Epistle to John Hamilton Rey- 
nolds 240 

A Draught of Sunshine . . .242 
At Te-?-tmottth 242 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



IX 



The Devon Maid .... 243 
Acrostic : Geokgiana Augusta Keats 243 

Meg Merrilies 243 

A Song about myself . . . 244 

To Thomas Keats 245 

The Gadfly 245 

On hearing the Bagpipe and seeing 
' The Stranger ' played at Inver- 

ARY 246 

Lines written in the Highlands 

AFTER A Visit to Burns's Country 246 
Mrs. Cameron and Ben Nevis • 247 



Sharing Eve's Apple • . . . 248 
A Prophecy: to George Keats in 

America .... , . 249| 
A Little Extempore . . . . 249 
Spenserian Stanzas on Charles Ar- ' 

MiTAGE Brown .... 250 

' Two OR THREE POSIES ' . . . 251 

A Party of Lovers . . . .251 
To George Keats: written in sick- 
ness 251 

On Oxford , 252 

To A Cat 252 



LETTERS 

1. Charles Cowden Clarke October 31, 1816 . 

2. The Same December 17, 1816 

3. John Hamilton Reynolds March 2, 1817 . . 

4. The Same March 17, 1817 . 

5. George and Thomas Keats April 15, 1817 . . 

6. John Hamilton Reynolds April 17, 1817 . . 

7. Leigh Hunt May 10, 1817 . . 

8. Benjamin Robert Haydon May 10, 1817 . . 

9. Messrs. Taylor and Hessey May 16, 1817 . . 

10. The Same July 8, 1817 . . 

11. Marlvne and Jane Reynolds September 5, 1817 . 

12. Fanny Keats September 10, 1817 

13. Jane Reynolds September 14, 1817 

14. John Hamilton Reynolds September 21, 1817 

15. The Same September, 1817 . 

16. Benjamin Robert Haydon . . September 28, 1817 

17. Benjamin Bailey October 8, 1817 . . 

18. The Same November 1, 1817 

19. Thf Same November 5, 1817 . 

20. Charles Wbntworth Dilke November, 1817 . 

21. Benjamin Bailey November 22, 1817 

22. John Hamilton Reynolds November 22, 1817 

23. George and Thomas Keats December 22, 1817 

24. The Same January 5, 1818 . 

. 25. Benjamin Robert Haydon January 10, 181S 

26. John Taylor January 10, 1818 . 

27. George and Thomas Keats January 13, 1818 

28. John Taylor January 23, 1818 . 

29. George and Thomas Keats January 23, 1818 

30. Benjamin Bailey January 23, 1818 . 

31. John Taylor . January 30, 1818 

32. John Hjucilton Reynolds January 31, 1818 . 

33. The Same February 3, 1818 

34. John Taylor February 5, 1818 . 

35. George and Thomas Keats February 14, 1818 

36. John Hamilton Reynolds February 19, 1818 

37. George and Thomas Keats February 21, 1818 

38. John Taylor February 27, 1818 

39. Messrs. Taylor and Hessey March, 1818 . . 

40. Benjamin Bailey March 13, 1818 

41. John Hamilton Reynolds March 14, 



. 255 
. 255 

. 255 
. 255 

. 256 
. 257 

. 258 
. 260 

. 262 
, 263 

. 263 
. 264 

. 265 
. 267 

. 269 
. 269 

. 270 
. 271 

. 27? 
. 2731 

.273" 
, 275 

. 276 
. 277 

. 279 
, 280 

. 280 
, 281 

. 281 
. 283 

. 284 
, 285 

. 285 
, 28(; 

. 286 
, 287 

. 288 
, 289 

. 290 
"90 

. 92 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



42. Benjamin Robekt Haydon March 21, 1818 

43. Messrs. Taylor and Hessey March 21, 1818 . 

4^1. James Rice March 24, 1818 . 

45. John Hamilton Reynolds March 25, 1818 . 

46. Benjamin Robert Haydon April 8, 1818 . . 

47. John Hamilton Reynolds April 9, 1818 . . 

48. The Same April 10, 1818 . . 

49. John Taylor April 24, 1818 . 

50. John Hamilton Reynolds April 27, 1818 . . 

51. The Same May 3, 1818 . . 

52. Mrs. Jeffrey May, 1818 . . . 

53. Benjamin Balley May 28, 1818 . . 

54. Misses M. and S. Jeffrey June 4, 1818 . . 

55. Benjamin Bailey June 10, 1818 . 

56. John Taylor June 21, 1818 . 

57. Thomas Keats June 29, 1818 , 

.58. Fanny Keats July 2, 1818 . . . 

59. Thomas Keats July 2, 1818 . . 

60. The Same July 10, 1818 . 

61. John Hamilton Reynolds July 11, 1818 . . 

62. Thomas Keats July 17, 1818 . , 

63. Benjamin Bailey July 18, 1818 . . 

64. Thomas Keats , July 23, 1818 . , 

65. The Same August 3, 1818 . 

66. Mrs. Wylie August 6, 1818 . . 

67. Fanny Keats August 18, 1818 

68. The Same August 25, 1818 , 

69. Jane Reynolds September 1, 1818 

70. Charles Wentworth Dilke September 21, 1818 

71. John Hamilton Reynolds September 22, 1818 

72. Fanny Keats October 9, 1818 . 

73. James Augustus Hessey October 9, 1818 

74. George and Georgiana Keats October 13-31, 1818 

75. Fanny Keats October 16, 1818 . 

76. The Same October 26, 1818 . 

77. Richard Woodhouse October 27, 1818 . 

78. Fanny Keats November 5, 1818 

79. James Rice November 24, 1818 

80. Fanny Keats December 1, 1818 . 

81. George and Georgiana Keats December 18, 1818 

82. Richard Woodhouse December 18, 1818 

83. Mrs. Reynolds December 22, 1818 

84. Benjamin Robert Haydon December 22, 1818 

85. John Taylor December 24, 1818 . 

86. Benjamin Robert Haydon December 27, 181 s 

87. Fanny Keats . December 30, 1818 

88. Benjamin Robert Haydon January 4, 1819 . 

89. The Same January 7, 1819 . 

90. The Same January, 1819 . . 

91. Fanny Keats January, 1819 . . 

92. Charles Wentworth Dilke and Mrs. Dilke . . January 24, 1819 . 

93. Fanny Keats February 11, 1819 . 

94. George and Georgiana Keats February 14, 1819 

95. Fanny Keats February 27, 1819 

96. Benjamin Robert Haydon March 8, 1819 , . 

97. Fanny Keats March 13, 1819 . . 

98. The Same March 24, 1819 . 



y 



TABLE OF CONTENTS xi 

9. Joseph Severn March 29 (?), 1819 . . .373 

It^O. Benjamin Robert Haydon April 13, 1819 .... 373 

10(1. Fanny Keats Aprill3, 1819 . . . . 374 

102. The Same April 17, 1819 .... 375 

103. The Same May 13, 1819 . . . .375 

104. William Haslam May 13, 1819 .... 375 

105. Fanny Keats May 26, 1819 . . . .376 

106. Miss Jeffrey May 31, 1819 .... 376 

107. The Same June 9, 1819 377 

108. Fanny Keats June 9, 1819 . . . . 37H 

109. James Elmes June 12, 1819 . . . .378 

110. Fanny Keats June 14, 1819 .... 379 

111. The Same June 16, 1819 .... 379 

112. Benjamin Robert Haydon June 17, 1819 .... 379 

113. Fanny Brawne July 3, 1819 380 

114. Fanny Keats July 6, 1819 .... 381 

115. Fanny Brawne July 8, 1819 382 

116. John Hamilton Reynolds July 11, 1819 .... 38'i 

117. Fanny Brawne July 15, 1819 383 

118. The Same July 27, 1819 .... 384 

119. Charles Wbntworth Dilke July 31, 1819 .... 38.5 

120. Fanny Brawne August 9, 1819 . . . 38(! 

121. Benjamin Bailey August 15, 1819 . . .387 

122. Fanny Brawne August 16, 1819 ... 388 

123. John Taylor August 23, 1819 . . .389 

124. John Hamilton Reynolds August 25, 1819 . . . 390 

125. Fanny Keats August 28, 1819 ... 390 

126. John Taylor September 1, 1819 . . 392 

127. The Same September 5, 1819 . . 392 

128. Fanny Brawne September 14, 1819 . . 39:; 

129. George and Georgiana Keats September 17, 1819 . . 394 

130. 407 

131. John Hamilton Reynolds September 22, 1819 . . 407 

132. Charles Wentworth Dllke September 22, 1819 . . 409 

133. Charles Armitage Brown September 23, 1819 . .410 

134. The Same September 23, 1819 . , 41 1 

135. Charles Wentworth Dilke October 1, 1819 . . . 412 

136. Benjamin Robert Haydon October 3, 1819 ... 412 

137. Fanny Brawne October 11, 1819 . . .4]) 

138. The Same October 13, 1819 . . . 41-". 

139. Fanny Keats October 16, 1819 . . .414 

140. Fanny Brawne October 19, 1819 ... 434 

141. Joseph Severn October 27, 1819 . . . 415 

142. John Taylor November 17, 1819 . . 415 

143. Fanny Keats November 17, 1819 . . 41(; 

144. Joseph Severn December 6, 1819 . . 41 6 

145. James Rice December, 1819 . . . 41*! 

146. Fanny Keats December 20, 1819 . . 417 

147. The Same December 22, 1819 . .4'^ 

148. Georgiana Augusta Keats January 13, 1820 . . . 4)8 

149. Fanny Brawne 423 

150. Fanny Keats February 6, 1820 . . . 4;^3 

151. The Same February 8, 1820 . . . 424 

152. Fanny Brawne 424 

153. The Same 424 

154. Fanny Keats February 11, 1820 . . 425 

155. The Same February 14, 1820 ... 425 



xii , TABLE OF CONTENTS 

15G. Fanny Brawne 425 

157. The Same 425 

ir.8. The Same 426 

159. James Rice , February 10, 1820 . . .426 

160. Fanny Keats February 19, 1820 . . 427 

161. Fanny Brawne 427 

162. The Same 427 

163. The Same 428 

164. John Hamilton Reynolds February 23, 1820 . . 428 

165. Fanny Brawne 429 

166. Fanny Keats February 24, 1820 . . 429 

167. Fanny Brawne 429 

168. The Same 429 

169. The Same 430 

170. The Same 430 

171. The Same 430 

172. The Same 430 

173. Charles Wentworth Dilke March 4, 1820 . . . .431 

174. Fanny Brawne 432 

175. The Same 432 

176. The Same 432 

177. The Same 432 

178. Fanny Keats March 20, 1820 ... 433 

179. Fanny Brawne 433 

180. The Same 433 

181. The Same . . . - 433 

182. Fanny Keats April 1, 1820 .... 434 

183. The Same AprQ, 1820 434 

184. The Same April 12, 1820 .... 434 

185. The Same April 21, 1820 .... 435 

186. The Same May 4, 1820 .... 435 

187. Charles Wentworth Dilke May, 1820 436 

188. Fanny Brawne 436 

189. The Same 436 

190. The Same 436 

191. John Taylor . June 11, 1820 .... 437 

192. Charles Armitage Brown June, 1820 . . . ... 437 

193. Fanny Keats June 26, 1820 .... 438 

194. Fanny Brawne • . 438 

195. Fanny Keats July 5, 1820 439 

196. Benjamin Robert Haydon July, 1820 440 

197. Fanny Keats July 22, 1820 .... 440 

198. Fanny Brawne 440 

199. The Same 441 

200. Fanny Keats August 14, 1820 ... 442 

201. Percy Bysshe Shelley August, 1820 .... 442 

202. John Taylor August 14, 1820 ... 443 

203. Benjamin Robert Haydon August, 1820 .... 444 

204. John Taylor August 15, 1820 ... 444 

205. Charles Armitage Brown August, 1820 .... 444 

206. Fanny Keats August 23, 1820 ... 445 

207. Charles Armitage Brown August, 1820 .... 445 

208. September, 1820 . . .445 

209. Charles Armitage Brown September 28, 1820 . . 446 

210. Mrs. Brawne October 24, 1820 ... 447 

211. Charles Armitage Brown November 1, 1820 . . 447 

212. The Same , November 30, 1820 . . 448 



TABLE OF CONTENTS xiii 
N(!tes and illustrations. 

JL. Poems 451 

n. Letters 459 

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL LIST OP KEATS'S POEMS 463 

INDEX OF FIRST LINES • 465 

INDEX OF TITLES 467 

INDEX TO LETTERS 471 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

John Keats was born in Finsbury, London, on either the 29th or the 31st of 
October, 1795. He died in an apartment overlooking the Piazza di Spagna, 
Rome, February 23, 1821. Thus his life was a brief span of a few months more 
than twenty-five years, and as his first acknowledged verses were written in the 
autumn of 1813, and his last sonnet was composed in the autumn of 1820, his 
poetical career was seven years long. Within that time he composed the verses 
included in this volume, yet by far the largest portion may be referred to the three 
years 1818-1820, and if one distilled the whole, the precious deposit would be but 
a few hundred lines. For all that, perhaps because of it, and because Keats with 
his warm human passion wrote what is almost an autobiography in his letters, we 
are able to get a tolerably clear notion of his early training and associations, and 
to follow quite closely the development of his nature after he began to devote him- 
self to poetry. 

His father, Thomas Keats, was not a Londoner by birth, but came from the 
country to the town early, and was head hostler in a livery stable before he was 
twenty. He married Frances Jennings, the daughter of his master, who thereupon 
retired from business, leaving it in the hands of his son-in-law. The young couple 
lived over the stable at first, but when their family increased, they removed to a 
house in the neighborhood. John Keats was the first born. He had two brothers 
and a sister who grew to maturity. George Keats was sixteen months his junior ; 
Thomas was four years younger, and Fanny, who was born in 1803, was a girl of 
ten when John Keats was making his first serious ventures in poetry. 

The little that is known of Keats's parents is yet sufficient to show them persons 
of generous qualities and lively temperament. They were prosperous in their 
lives, and meant to better the condition of their children, so they sent the boys to 
good schools. The father died when John Keats was in his tenth year, and his 
mother shortly after married a man who appears to have been her husband's suc- 
cessor in business as well as in affections, but the marriage proved an unhappy 
one ; there was a separation, and the stepfather scarcely came into the boy's life to 
affect him for good or for ill. He was still a school-boy, not yet fifteen, when 
his mother died, and he grieved for her with the force of a passionate nature that 
through a short life was to find various modes of expressing its keen sensibility. 

As Keats went early to school, the influences which came most forcibly into his 
boyhood were from his brothers and schoolmates. Tom, the youngest brother, was 
always frail. George, who was nearer John's age, was like him in spirit and more 
robust. His recollections of his brothers, written after both Tom and John had 
died, are frank enough to make the relation undoubtedly truthful : — 



JOHN KEATS 



' I loved .him [John] from hoyhood, even when he wronged me, for the goo 
I ess of his heart and the nobleness of his spirit. Before we left school we qua 
telled often, and fought fiercely, and I can safely say and my schoolfellows w; 
bear witness, that John's temper was the cause of all, still we were more attache > 
than brothers ever are. From the time we were boys at school, where we loved 
jfltngled and fought alternately, until we separated in 1818, I in a great measure 
r llieved him by continual sympathy, explanation and inexhaustible spirits an( 
good humor, from many a bitter fit of hypochondriasm. He avoided teasing an^ 
one with his miseries but Tom and myself, and often asked our forgiveness ; vent 
ing and discussing them gave him relief.' 

The school which the boys attended was kept by the Rev. John Clarke at En 
field, and a son of Mr. Clarke was Charles Cowden Clarke, the 'ever young 
hearted ' as his happy-natured wife calls him, who was seven or eight years th( 
senior of John Keats, but became his intimate friend and remained such througl 
b\s life. Clarke's own reminiscence of his friend seenas to fill out George Keats'; 
s" etch : — 

' He was a favorite with all. Not the less beloved was he for having a highb 
p'lgnacious spirit, which when roused was one of the most picturesque exhibition; 
— off the stage — I ever saw. . . . His passion at times was almost ungoverna 
ble ; and his brother George, being considerably the taller and stronger, used fre 
niiently to hold him down by main force, laughing when John was in one of hi 

oods, and was endeavoring to beat him. It was all, however, a wisp-of-strav 
."onflagration ; for he had an intensely tender affection for his brothers, and provec! 
it upon the most trying occasions. He was not merely the favorite of all, like i 
pet prize-fighter, for his terrier courage ; but his highmindedness, his utter uncc n 
sciousness of a mean motive, his placability, his generosity, wrought so general s 
feeling in his behalf that I never heard a word of disapproval from any one, supe 
■ or or equal, who had known him.' 

The reader will look in vain for any signs of a polemic nature in Keats's verse 
but it is easy enough to find witness to his moodiness, as in such a sonnet as tha 
Ix^ginning : — 

' Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will tell,' 

d of the ungovernable passion there is evidence enough in his later life, thougl 

it took then another form. Yet the boyish impulsiveness which had its rude ex 

!)ression in animal spirits turned in youth into a headlong eagerness for booki 

fore, during, and after school hours. According to Charles Cowden Clarke h( 

m all the literature prizes of the school, and took upon himself for fun the trans 

don of the entire ^neid into prose. He read voraciously, and the same friend 

says : ' In my mind's eye I now see him at supper, sitting back on the form f I'om 

the table, holding the folio volume of Burnet's History of his Own Time between 

himseU and the table, eating his meal from behind it. This work, and Leigh 

If unt's Examiner, which my father took in, and I used to lend to Keats — no 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



doubt laid the foundation of his love of civil and religious liberty.' Still moro 
definite in its relation to his art was the intimate acquaintance he then formed with 
Tooke's Pantheon and Lenipriere's Dictionary. 

The death of Keats's mother brought an interruption to his schooling. The 
grandmother, who was still living, created a trust for the benefit of the Keats chil- 
idren, and committed its care to two guardians, one of whom, Mr. Richard Abbey, 
jwas the active trustee, and though the fund seems to have been reasonably suffi- 
cient to protect the young people against the ordinary demands for a living, both 
John and George Keats seem always to have been sorely pinched for means. Mv. 
Abbey at once removed John Keats from school and had him apprenticed to a 
surgeon, Mr. Hammond, for a term of five years. Mr. Hammond lived at Edmoi - 
jn, not far from Enfield, and Keats was wont to walk over to the Clarkes' once a 
week or oftener to see his friends and borrow books. 

He was just fifteen when he began thus to equip himself for a place in the world, 
and for a little more than five years he was in training for the practice of medicine 
and surgery. His apprenticeship to Mr. Hammond did not last as long as this, for 
the indentures were cancelled about a year before the term expired, but Keats then 
went up to London to continue his studies at St. Thomas's and Guy's hospitals. 
He passed with credit his examination as licentiate at Apothecaries' Hall, July 26, 
1815, and received an appointment at Guy's in the March following. It does not 
appear exactly when he abandoned his profession. It may be said, with some 
truth, that he never actually abandoned it in intention ; he held it in reserve as 
a possible resort, but it seems doubtful if he ever took up the practice for- 
r ally outside the walls of the hospital. Once when his friend Charles Cowdei> 
Clarice asked him about his attitude toward his profession, he expressed his grave 
doubt if he should go on with it. 'The other day,' be said to him, 'during 
the lecture, there came a sunbeam into the room, and ith i< a whole troop of 
creatures floating in the ray; and I was off with theia 'o Obei'oi; nd fairy land.' 
' My last operation,' he told another man, ' was the opering of a man's temporal 
artery. I did it with the utmost nicety, but refle.-ting or. what passed through mj 
mind at the time, my dexterity seemed a miracle, and I never took up the lancet 
again.' 

It may be assumed that not later than thf. sunimer of 1816, when Keats was 
app 'oaching his majority, he laid aside his instninients, never to resume them. It 
is bt easy to reckon the contribution wliich tliese years of study and of brie 
prav^tice in the medical art made to his intellectual, much less to his poetical 
development. With his active mind he no doobr- appropriated some facts — per- 
haps we owe to his studies some lines in hift verse, as that in ' Isabella,' where in 
describing the Ceylon diver contributing ^o ihe brothers' wealth, he says : — 



' For them his ears ijush'd blood ; ' 



but it is more probable that, like many another young student, he went through his 
tasks with sufficient fidelity to secure^ proper credit, but without any of that devo- 



xviii JOHN KEATS 

~^! ! I \ , a poeti< 

tiou which is the only real ' learning by heart. It is more j t'le pui 

'luring tlie years in which he was forming his mental habits, he - v,j.of essioi ' 

atellectual exercise while he was obeying instinctively the voice^ ^-^ y^j^^j^g g„f • | 
liim more and more loudly. " .''pieces from ' I 

^^-^The actual record of his poetry up to this date of the summ^ -ferred to this 
extensive, but it is indicative of his growing power, of his tastv ■" - n ofi 

observation, of his companionship, and most notably of his cons^i, ;ss < , .^ 
poetic spirit. Along with a few pieces like the lines ' To Some Ladies,' y ■, i 
show how little skill he had in making poetry a mere parlor maid, there are j Vemf 
Avhich show how he was struggling to do what other poets have done, as the lines 
To Hope ' and the ' Ode ' and ' Hymn to Apollo.' The lines ' To Hope,' with a^ 
: lieir formal use of poetic conventions, have an interest from the attemjjt he ma '? 
at using the instrument he most highly valued in expressing his own moods and k 
youthful fervor which found a suburban Hampden in Leigh Hunt. His friends!, 
with Hunt was in part founded on an admiration for the political hissing whicl 
Hunt and his friends kept up, and which was translated by his own independencf 
of spirit into a valiant revolutionary sound, but more on an appreciation of Hunt',' 
good taste in literature, his enjoyment of the Elizabethans and Milton, and his 
literary temper. Hunt was more of a public figure than Clarke or Reynol '^ 
James Rice, Mathew, or any other of Keats's chosen companions, but the basis /. 
Keats's friendship, apart from his brothers, was a community pf literary taitt 
more even than of literary production. It is a pleasure to get such glimpses a; 
we do of this coterie exchanging books, revelling in their discovery of great author: 
v/ho had been wr nped in the cereclotli of an antique speech, and celebrating t^ i: 
own admiration ■ ■ these bards that ' gild the lapses of time.' It was not i 
Examiner tha^ hli d Keats's mind, it was Spenser and Milton, Chapman a 
Chaucer, and when ha cme away from Hunt's cottage, 'brimful of tie friend^ 
ness ' he there had found, it was of Lycidas and Petrarch and Laura that he sau: 
as he fared on foot in the cool bleak air. In his 'Epistle to George Feltoi 
Mathew,' it is poetry anvl the brotherhood which springs from poetry that promp 
the expression of friendsinp, and there is no prettier tale in literary friendshi] 
than that which shows Keats and Clarke sitting up through the night readins 
Chapman's Homer, and Keats ia the morning sending his friend the well-turnec 
sonnet which has been the key that unlocks Chapman to many readers. 

These early verses thus are j\ill of Keats's personal history, for he was living ir 
the land of fancy and was rejoicing in the companionship of lovers of that land 
but they are also witnesses to the feeling which he had for nature. It is true tlw 
flinging of himself on the grass, afterv bein<:: pent up in the city, is to read somt 
'debonair and gentle tale of love and laiiguishment,' and a fair summer's ev( 
suggests thoughts of Milton's fate and Sydney's bier; nevertheless, these expres 
8ii>ns occur in the constricted sonnet. WJtitn Keats allows himself freedom and 
the rush of spontaneous emotion, as in the ivi.'^s ' I stood tiptoe upon a little hill, 
the reflection of nature in mythology and pov^Uy is merely incidental to the joyou5 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



nature i!si f, a delight so genuine that it ahnost covers from sight the 
lal, y i L.gligent beadroll of poetic subjects. Keats was born almost 
' "")wbells, but his school days and early youth wei-e spent in the 
f'jnfield and Edmonton, and he escaped often from the city to 
erely for companionship, but because there the nightingale sang, 
V in the woods or the stroll on the heath brought him face to 
.c jiitude which yielded indeed in his mind to pleasant converse, yet 

,s he tx ie\r well, the direct road to converse with nature. Perhaps, in the 
'I stood tiptoe,' it is the close and loving observation of nature which first 
ai-,et :s one's attention, but a nearer scrutiny quickly reveals that imaginative ren- 
dering which lifts these lines far above the level of descriptive poetry. If in some 
'' Wordsworth's s^ -.etches from nature written when he was of the same age one 
cries a profounder consciousness of human personality and a deeper sense of 
mental relations, one is aware also of longer stretches of purely descriptive 
V e'rse ; with Keats there is an instant alchemy by which all sights and sounds are 
transmuted into the elements of a poetic world. 

As this poem goes on it trembles into a half dreamy rapture of the poet away 
from all scenes into the world of visions, but it is in ' Sleei> and Poetry,' written 
apparently at about the same time, that we discover a more precise witness to the 
i; ^tic ideals now well formed in Keats's mind. The poet placed this piece last in 
Ills first printed volume, as if he intended to make it his personal apology. It is in 
pavt an impassioned plea for the freedom of imagination as against the artifices of 
the school of Pope, but even when thus half formally reciting his creed, Keats 
shows how little of the dogmatist there was in his nature, how little even of the 
"vi'icjby the careless wandering of his own poem, and the unconscious expression 
j his own delight in everything that is beautiful in nature or art ; so that as he 
• rites his . ye takes in the walls of the room where he lies, and he falls to versify- 
ag its contents. He thi-ills with the consciousness of being a poet, and flushes 
•-►ver the prospect of what he may do, yet at present what he does is rather the 
overflow of a poetic nature than the studied product of an artist. 

The poems which precede ' Endymion ' are many of them chiefly interesting for 
the hints they give thus of a nature which was gathering itself for a large leap. 
They are, as the reader will see, tentative excursions into the airy region, and they 
contain besides little witnesses to some of the important compelling influences which 
were forming Keats's mind. Thus the sonnets to Haydon illustrate Keats's recog- 
nition of Wordsworth, and also the great impression made upon him by the intro- 
duction which Haydon gave him to Greek art. They bear evidence, too, of his 
increasing study of Shakespeare and of his admiration for Milton, whose minor 
poems seem at this time to have exercised much influence over his style. Hunt's 
influence can be seen in the poems, but more indirectly than directly, for Hunt 
with his fine taste had done much to open the way to a return of lovers of poetry 
to the spacious days of Elizabeth. The poems are sometimes exercises, son.^t"i;nt-; 
illuminations of a poetic mind, and they have a rare value to the student of ' m ' 



JOHN KEATS 



as they disclose the mingling of great poetic traditions with tl f ; usts of 
nature which was itself to add to tlie stock of great English v i- h. 

There was ahout a year's space between Keats's abandonm ' ' 

and his occupation upon a long and serious poem. The group ' 
tied 'Early Poems' gives the product of that period. That i . ilx 
stood tiptoe upon a little hill' to the end of the section may )•« rt. 
time, and the first one may fairly be taken as a sort of prologue to his a(topti»i' 
a poetical life. When he was writing these poems he was li ''ng much with 
brothers, to whom he was warmly attached, and was in a circli of ardent frienas 
men and women. He was an animated talker, with bursts of indignation, and a 
prey somewhat to moods of depression. His appearance has been described by 
many, and is thus summed up by Mr. Colvin : ^ ' A small, handS' rne, ardent-looking 
youth — the stature little over five feet; the figure compact an" yr^i t -aed, wltl; 
the neck thrust eagerly forward, carrying a strong and shapely head set off by 
thickly clustering gold-brown hair ; the features powerful, finished, and mobile ; the 
mouth rich and wide, with an expression at once combative and sensitive in the 
extreme ; the forehead not high, but broad and strong ; the eyebrows nobly arched, 
and eyes hazel-brown, liquid-flashing, visibly inspired — "an eye that had an in- 
ward look, perfectly divine, like a Delphian priestess who saw visions." ' 

Keats was in London and its neighborhood during most of this year, but after 
the publication of his first volume of poems he went to the Isle of Wight and later 
to the seashore, and soon began to occupy himself with his serious labor of 
' Endymion.' While he was working upon this ijoem he wrote but few verses. His 
letters, however, show him immersed in literature and the friendships which with 
him were so identified with literature, and kept, moreover, in a state of restless- 
ness by what in homely phrase may be termed the growing pains of his poetic 
nature. ' I went to the Isle of Wight,' he writes to Leigh Hunt, May 10, 1817, 
' thought so much about poetry, so long together, that I could not get to sleep at 
night ; and, moreover, I know not how it was, I could not get wholesome food. 
By this means, in a week or so, I became not over capable in my upper stories, 
and set off pell mell for Margate, at least a hundred and fifty miles, because, 
forsooth, I fancied that I should like my old lodging here, and could contrive to 
do without trees. Another thing, I was too much in solitude and consequently was 
obliged to be in continual burning of thought, as an only recourse. However, Tom 
is with me at present, and we are very comfortable. . . . These last two days I 
have felt more confident. I have asked myself so often why I should be a poet 
more than other men, seeing how great a thing it is, — how great things are to be 
gained by it, what a thing to be in the mouth of Fame, — that at last the idea has 
grown so monstrously beyond my seeming power of attainment, that the other day 
^ nearly consented with myself to drop into a Phaethon. Yet 't is a disgrace to 

V even in a huge attempt ; and at this moment I drive the thought from me.' 
J .ase lines were written when Keats was deep in ' Endymion,' and with others 
1 Keats [Men of Letters Series]. By Sidney Colvin. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



they intimate with some clearness howjeriously Keats took himself, as the saying 
is. Much reading of great poetry had set standards for him rather than furnished 
models. It is not difficult to trace Keats's indebtedness to other poets, so far as 
words and turns of expression go, yet his confessed imitations show almost as con- 
clusively as his original verse how incapable he was of merely reproducing out of 
the quarries of other poetry his own fair buildings. His was a nature possessed 
of poetic power, yet fed more than usual by great poetry. That he should have 
gone by turns to ancient mythology and mediaeval romance for his themes, and 
have treated both in a spirit of romance, was due to a large artistic endowment, 
which bade him see both nature and humanity as subjects for composition, furnish- 
ing images to be delighted in. He was conscious of poetic genius, and never more 
so than wlien reading great poetry. In the presence of Shakespeare and Spenser 
he could exclaim, ' I too am a poet,' and this was no mere excitement such as 
hurries lesser men into clever copying, but an exhilaration which sent his pulses 
bounding as his own conceptions rose fair to view. It was obedience to this 
strong impulse to produce a great work of art which led him to sketch * Endymion ' 
and try his powers upon an attack on the very citadel of poetic beauty. Fame 
waved a wreath before him, yet it was not Fame but Poetry that really urged him 
forward. It is not unfair to translate even a confession of desire for fame into 
an acknowledgment of conscious power. 

' Endymion ' was published in the spring of 1818, and Keats's own attitude to- 
ward his work at this time is well expressed in the sonnet ' When I have fears that 
I may cease to be,' and in that written on sitting down to read King Lear once 
again. The very completion of his task set free new fancies, and there is a spon- 
taneity in his occasional verse and in his lettei-s which witnesses to a rapid matur- 
ing of power and a firmness of tread. The interesting letter to Reynolds of Feb- 
ruary 3, 1818, which contains a spirited criticism of Wordsworth and holds the 
Robin Hood verses, is quick with gay strength, and shows the poet alert and sane. 

The publication of ' Endymion ' was an important event to Keats and his circle. 
His earlier volume, the verses which he had since written and shown, and his own 
personality, had raised great expectations among his near friends and the few who 
could discern poetry without waiting for the poet to be famous ; and now he was 
staking all, as It were, upon this single throw. The book was coarsely and roughly 
handled by the two leading reviews of the day, Blackwood' s and the Quarterly. 
Criticism in those days was far from impersonal. A poet was condemned or 
praised, not for his work, but for his politics, the fx'iends he associated with, his 
religion, and anything In his private life which might be known to the reviewer. 
Keats knew the worthlessness of much of this ci-lticlsm, but he felt nevertheless 
keenly the hostility of what, rightly or wrongly, was looked upon as the supreme 
court in the republic of letters. 

Under other circumstances he might have felt this even more keenly, and there 
appears to be evidence that he recurred afterward with bitterness to the attitude 
of the reviews ; but just at this time other matters filled his mind. His brother. 



JOHN KEATS 



George Keats, with his wife, went to America to try fortune in the new world, and 
Keats immediately afterward took a long walking tour in the north with his friend 
Brown. His letters and the few poems of travel he wrote show how ardently he 
threw himself into this acquaintance with a new phase of nature. But he was to 
pass through experiences which entered more profoundly into life. In December 
of the same year, 1818, his brother Tom died. He had been his constant com- 
panion and nurse, and was with him at his death. Then, when his whole nature 
was deeply stirred, he came to know and ardently to love a girl who by turns fas- 
cinated and repelled him, until he was completely enthralled, without apparently 
finding in her the repose which his restless nature needed. 

Keats's first mention of Fanny Brawne scarcely prepares one for the inroads 
made upon him by this personage during the rest of his short life. He went to 
live with his friend Brown after Tom's death, and Mrs. Brawne became his next- 
door neighbor. ' She is a very nice woman,' he writes, ' and her daughter senior 
is I think beautiful and elegant, graceful, silly, fashionable and strange. We 
have a little tiff now and then — and she behaves a little better, or I must have 
sheered off.' The passion which he conceived for Miss Brawne rapidly mounted 
into a dominant place, and it is one of the marks of Keats's deeper nature, not 
disclosed to his friends, intimate as he was with them, that for the two years which 
intervened before he left England a dying man, he carried this passion as a sort of 
vulture gnawing at his vitals, concealed for the most part, though not wholly. 
Some overt expression it found, as in the ' Ode to Fanny,' the ' Lines to Fanny,' 
and the verses addressed to the same person beginning : — 

' I cry your pity — mercy — love, ay love,' 
and it may be traced, with little doubt, in those poems which emphasize his moods, 
such as the ' Ode to Melancholy ' and the sonnet beginning : — 

' Why did I laugh to-night ? ' 
and that also beginning : — 

' The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone.' 

The letters contain infrequent allusions, except of course the posthumously pub- 
lished letters to the lady herself. 

But with this overmastering passion to reckon with, the student of Keats can 
scarcely avoid regarding it as strongly influencing the poet's career during his 
remaining days. The turbulent experience of death and love acted upon a physical 
organism predisposed to decay, and soon it was apparent that Keats was himself 
invaded by the disease of consumption, which had wasted his brother Tom. But 
before this ravaging of his powers set in, that is, during the first half of 1819, when 
he was at once deepened by sorrow and excited by love, he wrote that great group 
of poems which begins with ' The Eve of St. Agnes ' and closes with ' Lamia.' 
If one takes as in some respects the high-water mark of his genius the mystic ' La 
Belle Dame sans merci,' it is not perhaps too speculative a judgment which sees 
the keenest anguish of a passionate soul transmuted into terms of impersonal 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



poesy. There is no hectic flush about the poetry of this half year, but au increas- 
ing firmness of touch and rich, yet reserved imagination. 

But great as his products wei'e, he had not found his public, and the little 
property he had was slipping away, so that he was confronted by the fear of pov- 
erty as his weakness grew upon him. Nothing seemed to go well with him ; his 
love affair brought him little else than exquisite pain. It is probable that on 
Keats's side the pride which was so dominant a chord in his nature forbade a man 
who could scarce support himself and felt the damp dews of decline chilling his 
vitality from seeking refuge in marriage with a girl who was in happier circum- 
stance than he. He tried to turn his gifts into money by aiming at fortune with 
a play for the popular stage. He tried his hand at work for the periodicals. He 
even considered the possibility of returning to his profession of surgery for a liveli- 
hood. But all these projects failed him, and he turned with an almost savage and 
certainly sardonic humor to a scheme for flinging at the head of the public a popular 
poem. ' The Cap and BeUs ' is a melancholy example of what a great poet can 
produce who is consumed by a hopeless passion and wasted by disease. 

Keats clung to his fi'iends and wrote affectionate letters to his family. His 
brother George came over from America on a brief business visit, and was dis- 
turbed to find John so altered ; and scarcely had George returned in January, 
1820, than the poet had a sharp attack with loss of blood. He rallied as the 
spring came on, and early in the summer saw to the publication of his last volume, 
containing ' Hyperion, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, Lamia,' and the ' Odes,' per- 
haps the most precious cargo carried in a vessel of this size in English literature in 
this century. 

A month after the publication of the volume he was writing to Shelley, who had 
sent him an invitation to visit him in Pisa : ' There is no doubt that an English 
winter would put an end to me, and do so in a lingering, hateful manner. There- 
fore, I must either voyage or journey to Italy, as a soldier marches up to a battery.' 
In September he put himself into the hands of his cheerful and steadfast friend 
Severn the artist, and they took passage for Naples. It was when they were 
detained by winds off the coast of England that Keats wrote his last sonnet, with 
its veiled homage to Fanny Brawne, and in Naples Harbor he wrote to Mi's. 
Bi-awne in a feverish mood : ' I dare not fix my mind upon Fanny, I have not 
dared to think of her. The only comfort I have had that way has been in think- 
ing for hours together of having the knife she gave me put in a silver case — 
the hair in a locket — and the pocket-book in a gold net. Show her this. I dare 
say no more.' And then there is the letter to Brown, with its agony of separation, 
in which he gives way to the torment of his love, with despair written in every line. 
It is difficult to say as one thinks of Keats's ashes whether the fire of passion or 
the fire of physical consumption had most to do with causing them. 

lo was in November, 1820, that the travellers reached Rome, and for a little 
whiJe Keats could take short strolls on the Pincian Hill; but the fatal disease was 
mali ing rapid progress, and on the 22d of February, 1821, he died, and three days 



JOHN KEATS 



later he was buried in the Protestant cemetery, where upon his gravestone may 
be read the words which Keats had said of himself : — 

' Here lies one -whose name was writ in water.' 

In his first sonnet on Fame, Keats, in a saner mood, puts by the temptation 
which would withdraw him from the high serenity of conscious worth. In the 
second, wherein he seems almost to be seeing Fanny Brawne mocking behind the 
figure of Fame, he shows a more scornful attitude. There is little doubt that not- 
withstanding his close companionship with poets living and dead Keats never could 
long escape from the allurements of this ' wayward girl,' yet it may surely be said 
that his escape was most complete when he was fulfilling the highest law of his 
nature and creating those images of beauty which have given him Fame while he 
sleeps. 

H. E. S. 



POEMS 



EARLY POEMS 



In this group are included the contents 
of the volume Poems by John Keats, pub- 
lished in March, 1817, as well as certain 



poems composed before the publication of 
Endymion. The order followed is as nearly 
chronological as the evidence permits. 



IMITATION OF SPENSER 

Lord Houghton states, on the authority of 
the notes of Charles Armitage Brown, given 
to him in Florence in 1832, that this was the 
earliest known composition of Keats, and that 
it was written during his residence in Edmon- 
ton at the end of his eighteenth year, which 
would make the date in the autumn of 1813. 
The poem was included in the 1817 volume, 
which bore on its title-page this motto : — 

What more felicity can fall to creature 
Than to enjoy delight with liberty ? 

Fate of the Butterfly. — Spenser. 

Now Morning from her orient chamber 

came, 
And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant 

hill; 
Crowning its lawny crest with amber 

flame, 
Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill; 
Which, pure from mossy beds, did down 

distil. 
And after parting beds of simple flowers, 
By many streams a little lake did fill, 
Which round its marge reflected woven 

bowers. 
And, in its middle space, a sky that never 

lowers. 

There the kingfisher saw his plumage 

bright, 
Vying with fish of brilliant dye below; 
Whose silken fins' and golden scales' light 
Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby 

glow: 
There saw the swan his neck of arched 

snow. 



And oar'd himself along with majesty; 
Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show 
Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony. 
And on his back a fay reclin'd voluptuously. 

Ah ! could I tell the wonders of an isle 
That in that fairest lake had placed been, 
I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile; 
Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen: 
For sure so fair a place was never seen. 
Of all that ever charm'd romantic eye : 
It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen 
Of the bright waters ; or as when on high. 
Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the 
ccerulean sky. 

And all around it dipp'd luxuriously 
Slopings of verdure through the glossy 

tide, 
Which, as it were in gentle amity, 
Rippled delighted up the flowery side; 
As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried. 
Which fell profusely from the rose-tree 

stem ! 
Haply it was the workings of its pride. 
In strife to throw upon the shore a gem 
Outvying all the buds in Flora's diadem. 



ON DEATH 

Assigned by George Keats to the year 1814, 
and first printed in Forman's edition, 1883. 

Can death be sleep, when life is but a 
dream. 
And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by ? 



EARLY POEMS 



The transient pleasures as a vision seem, 
And yet we think the greatest pain 's to 
die. 

How strange it is that man on earth should 
roam, 

And lead a life of woe, but not forsake 
His rugged path; nor dare he view aloue 

His future doom, which is but to awake. 



TO CHATTERTON 

First printed in Life, Letters, and Literary 
Remains, but undated. Keats's admiration of 
Chatterton was early and constant. 

O Chatterton ! how very sad thy fate ! 
Dear child of sorrow — son of misery ! 
How soon the film of death obscur'd that 
eye, 
Whence Genius mildly flash'd, and high 

debate. 
How soon that voice, majestic and elate. 
Melted in dying numbers ! Oh ! how 

nigh 
Was night to thy fair morning. Thou 
didst die 
A half-blown flow'ret which cold blasts 

amate. 
But this is past: thou art among the stars 

Of highest Heaven : to the rolling spheres 
Thou sweetly singest : nought thy hymning 
mars, 
Above the ingrate world and human 
fears. 
On earth the good man base detraction 
bars 
From thy fair name, and waters it with 
tears. 



TO BYRON 

The date of December, 1814, is given to this 
sonnet by Lord Houghton in Life, Letters, and 
Literary Hemains, where it was first published. 

Byron ! how sweetly sad thy melody ! 
Attuning still the soul to tenderness, 



As if soft Pity, with unusual stress. 
Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, 

being by, 
Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them 
to die. 
O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make 

thee less 
Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress 
With a bright halo, shining beamily. 
As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil, 
Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent 
glow. 
Through the dark robe oft amber rays pre- 
vail, 
And like fair veins in sable marble flow; 
Still warble, dying swan ! still tell the tale. 
The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing 



< WOMAN! WHEN I BEHOLD 
THEE FLIPPANT, VAIN' 

In the 181*7 volume, where this poem was 
first published, with no title, it is placed at 
the end of a group of poems which are thus 
advertised on the leaf containing the dedica- 
tion : ' The Short Pieces in the middle of the 
Book as well as some of the Sonnets, were 
written at an earlier period than the rest of 
the Poems.' In the absence of any documen- 
tary evidence, it seems reasonable to place it 
near the 'Imitation of Spenser' rather than 
near ' Calidore.' 

Woman ! when I behold thee flippant, vain. 
Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of 

fancies ; 
Without that modest softening that en- 
hances 
The downcast eye, repentant of the pain 
That its mild light creates to heal again: 
E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps and 

prances. 
E'en then my soul with exultation dances 
For that to love, so long, I 've dormant 

lain : 
But when I see thee meek, and kind, and 
tender, 



TO SOME LADIES 



Heavens ! how desperately do I adore 
Thy winning graces ; — to be thy defender 

I hotly burn — to be a Calidore — 
A very Red Cross Knight — a stout Le- 
ander — 
Might I be lov'd by thee like these of 
yore. 

Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted 
hair; 
Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and 

creamy breast. 
Are things on which the dazzled senses 
rest 
Till the fond, fixfed eyes forget they stare. 
From such fine pictures, Heavens ! I cannot 
dare 
To turn my admiration, though unpos- 

sess'd 
They be of what is worthy, — though not 
drest 
In lovely modesty, and virtues rare. 
Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark; 
These lures I straight forget, — e'en ere 
I dine. 
Or thrice my palate moisten: but when I 
mark 
Such charms with mild intelligences 
shine, 
My ear is open like a greedy shark, 
To catch the timings of a voice divine. 

Ah ! who can e'er forget so fair a being ? 
Who can forget her half-retiring sweets ? 
God ! she is like a milk-white lamb that 
bleats 
For man's protection. Surely the All-see- 
ing. 
Who joys to see us with his gifts agree- 
ing. 
Will never give him pinions, who intreats 
Such innocence to ruin, — who vilely 
cheats 
A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no 

freeing 
One's thoughts from such a beauty; when 
I hear 
lay that once I saw her hand awake, 



Her form seems floatingpalpable, and near: 
Had I e'er seen her from an arbour take 

A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear, 
And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture 
shake. 



TO SOME LADIES 

This and the poem following were included 
in the 1817 volume. George Keats says fur- 
ther that it was ' written on receiving a copy 
of Tom Moore's " Golden Chain " and a most 
beautiful Dome shaped shell from a Lady.' 
The exact title of Moore's poem is 'The 
Wreath and the Chain,' and it will be readily 
seen how expressly imitative these lines are of 
Moore's verse in general. The poems are not 
dated, but they are the first in a group stated 
by Keats to have been ' written at an earlier 
period than the rest of the Poem ; ' it is safe to 
assume that they belong very near the begin- 
ning of Keats's poetical career. It is quite 
likely that they were included in the volume a 
few years later on personal grounds. 

What though, while the wonders of nature 
exploring, 
I cannot your light, mazy footsteps at- 
tend ; 
Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring. 
Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's 
friend: 

Yet over the steep, whence the mountain- 
stream rushes, 
With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove ; 
Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its pas- 
sionate gushes. 
Its spray that the wild flower kindly 
bedews. 

Why linger you so, the wild ^abyrinth 
strolling ? 
Why breathless, unable yom^Holiss to de- 
clare ? 
Ah ! you list to the nightingale's tender 
condoling. 
Responsive to sylphs, in the moon-beamy 
air. 



EARLY POEMS 



'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are 


And splendidly mark'd with the story di- 


yet drooping, 


vine 


I see you are treading the verge of the 


Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the 


sea: 


bold? 


And now ! ah, I see it — you just now are 




stooping 


Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flow- 


To pick up the keepsake intended for me. 


ing? 




Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's 


If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending, 


smart is ? 


Had brought me a gem from the fret- 


Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing ? 


work of Heaven; 


And wear'st thou the shield of the fam'd 


And smiles, with his star-cheering voice 


Britomartis ? 


sweetly blending. 




The blessings of Tighe had melodiously 


What is it that hangs from thy shoulder. 


given; 


so brave, 




Embroider'd with many a spring peering 


It had not created a warmer emotion 


flower ? 


Than the present, fair nymphs, I was 


Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave ? 


blest with from you; 


And hastest thou now to that fair* lady's 


Than the shell, from the bright golden 


bower ? 


sands of the ocean, 




Which the emerald waves at your feet 


Ah ! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy 


gladly threw. 


thou art crown 'd; 




Full many the glories that brighten thy 


For, indeed, 't is a sweet and peculiar plea- 


youth ! 


sure. 


I will tell thee my blisses, which richly 


(And blissful is he who such happiness 


abound 


finds,) 


In magical powers to bless and to soothe. 


To possess but a span of the hour of leisure. 




In elegant, pure, and aerial minds. 


On this scroll thou seest written in charac- 




ters fair 




A sun-beaming tale of a wreath, and a 


ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS 


chain: 


SHELL AND A COPY OF 


And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare 


VERSES FROM THE SAME 


Of charming my mind from the trammels 


LADIES 


of pain. 


Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a 


This canopy mark: 'tis the work of a fay; 


gem 


Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon 


Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the 


languish. 


mountain ? 


When lovely Titania was far, far away, 


Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem, 


And cruelly left him to sorrow and an- 


When it flutters in sunbeams that shine 


guish. 


throvigh a fountain ? 






There, oft would he bring from his soft- 


Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine ? 


sighing lute 


That goblet right heavy, and massy, and 


Wild strains to which, spell-bou- ' liC^e 


gold? 


nightingales listen'd ! A 






TO HOPE 



The wondering spirits of Heaven were 
mute, 
And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morn- 
ing oft glisten'd. 

In this little dome, all those melodies 
strange, 
Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will 
sigh; 
Nor e'er will the notes from their tender- 
ness change, 
Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die. 

So when I am in a voluptuous vein, 

I pillow my head on the sweets of the 
rose. 
And list to the tale of the wreath and the 
chain. 
Till its echoes depart; then I sink to re- 
pose. 

Adieu, valiant Eric ! with joy thou art 

crown'd. 

Full many the glories that brighten thy 

youth; 

I too have my blisses, which richly abound 

In magical powers to bless, and to soothe. 



WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT 
MR. LEIGH HUNT LEFT 
PRISON 

Either the 2d or .3d of February, 1815. 
Charles Cowden Clarke, to whom Keats 
showed the sonnet, writes in his recollections: 
' This I feel to be the first proof I had re- 
ceived of his having committed himself in 
verse ; and how clearly do I recollect the con- 
scious look and hesitation with which he of- 
fered it ! There are some momentary glances 
by beloved friends that fade only with life.' 
The sonnet was printed in the 1817 volume. 

What though, for showing truth to flat- 

ter'd state. 
Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has 

he. 
In his immortal spirit, been as free 



As the sky-searching lark, and as elate. 
Minion of grandeur ! think you he did 
wait? 
Think you he nought but prison-walls 

did see. 
Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the 
key? 
Ah, no ! far happier, nobler was his fate ! 
In Spenser's halls he stray'd, and bowers 
fair, 
Culling enchanted flowers; and he flew 
With daring Milton through the fields of 
air: 
To regions of his own his genius true 
Took happy flights. Who shall his fame 
impair 
When thou art dead, and all thy wretched 
crew ? 



TO HOPE 

Keats dates this poem in the volume of 1817, 
February, 1815. 

When by my solitary hearth I sit, 
And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in 
gloom ; 
When no fair dreams before my ' mind's 
eye ' flit. 
And the bare heath of life presents no 
bloom ; 
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me 

shed, 
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my 
head. 

Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night. 
Where woven boughs shut out the moon's 
bright ray. 
Should sad Despondency my musings 
fright. 
And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness 
away, 
Peep with the moonbeams through the 

leafy roof, 
And keep that fiend Despondence far 
aloof. 

I 



EARLY POEMS 



Should Disappointment, parent of Despair, 
Strive for her sou to seize my careless 
heart; 
When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air, 
Preparing on his spell-bound prey to 
dart: 
Chase him away, sweet Hope, with 

visage bright, 
And fright him as the morning fright- 
ens night ! 

Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear 

Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow, 

O bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy 

cheer; 

Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts 

borrow: 

Thy heaven-born radiance around me 

shed, 
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my 
head ! 

Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain, 

From cruel parents, or relentless fair, 
O let me think it is not quite in vain 
To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air ! 
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me 

shed. 
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my 
head. 

In the long vista of the years to roll, 

Let me not see our country's honour fade : 
O let me see our land retain her soul. 
Her pride, her freedom; and not free- 
dom's shade. 
From thy bright eyes unusual bright- 
ness shed — 
Beneath thy pinions canopy my head ! 

Let me not see the patriot's high bequest. 

Great liberty ! how great in plain attire ! 
With the base purple of a court oppress'd, 
Bowing her head, and ready to expire: 
But let me see thee stoop from Hea- 
ven on wings 
That fill the skies with silver glitter- 
ings ! 

} 



And as, in sparkling majesty, a star 

Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy 
cloud ; 
Brightening the half veil'd face of heaven 
afar: 
So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit 
shroud, 
Sweet Hope, celestial influence round 

me shed, 
Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head. 



ODE TO APOLLO 

The Ode and the Hymn which follows were 
first printed by Lord Houghton in Life, Letters 
and Literary Remains ; the former is there 
dated February, 1815. 

In thy western halls of gold 

When thou sittest in thy state, 
Bards, that erst sublimely told 

Heroic deeds, and sang of fate. 
With fervour seize their adamantine 
lyres, 
Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle 
radiant fires. 

Here Homer with his nervous arms 
Strikes the twanging harp of war, 
And even the western splendour warms, 

While the trumpets sound afar: 
But, what creates the most intense sur- 
prise, 
His soul looks out through renovated eyes. 

Then, through thy Temple wide, melodi- 
ous swells 
The sweet majestic tone of Maro's lyre: 
The soul delighted on each accent 
dwells, — 
Enraptur'd dwells, — not daring to re- 
spire. 
The while he tells of grief around a funeral 
pyre. 

'T is awful silence then again; 
Expectant stand the spheres ; 
Breathless the laurell'd peers. 



TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT ME A LAUREL CROWN 



Nor move, till ends the lofty strain, 
Nor move till Milton's tuneful thunders 

cease, 
And leave once more the ravish'd heavens 

in peace. 

Thou biddest Shakspeare wave his hand, 

And quickly forward spring 
The Passions — a terrific band — 

And each vibrates the string 
That with its tyrant temper best accords. 
While from their Master's lips pour forth 
the inspiring words. 

A silver trumpet Spenser blows, 

And, as its martial notes to silence flee. 
From a virgin chorus flows 

A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity. 
'T is still ! Wild warblings from the 
.^olian lyre 
Enchantment softly breathe, and trem- 
blingly expire. 

Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers 

Float along the pleased air. 
Calling youth from idle slumbers. 

Rousing them from Pleasure's lair: — 
Then o'er the strings his fingers gently 
move. 
And melt the soul to pity and to love. 

But when Thou joinest with the Nine, 
And all the powers of song combine, 

We listen here on earth: 
The dying tones that fill the air, 
And charm the ear of evening fair. 
From thee. Great God of Bards, receive 
their heavenly birth. 



HYMN TO APOLLO 

Goir of the golden bow, 

And of the golden lyre. 
And of the golden hair, 
And of the golden fire. 
Charioteer 
Of the patient year. 



Where — where slept thine ire. 
When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath, 
Thy laurel, thy glory, 
The light of thy story. 
Or was I a worm — too low crawling, for 
death ? 

O Delphic Apollo ! 

The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd. 

The Thunderer frown'd and frown'd; 
The eagle's feathery mane 

For wrath became stijffen'd — the sound 
Of breeding thunder 
Went drowsily under. 
Muttering to be unbound. 
O why didst thou pity, and for a worm 
Why touch thy soft lute 
Till the thunder was mute. 
Why was not I crush'd — such a pitiful 
germ ? 

O Delphic Apollo ! 

The Pleiades were up. 

Watching the silent air; 
The seeds and roots in the Earth 
Were swelling for summer fare; 
The Ocean, its neighbour. 
Was at its old labour, 
When, who — who did dare 
To tie, like a madman, thy plant round his 
brow. 

And grin and look proudly. 
And blaspheme so loudly. 
And live for that honour, to stoop to thee 
now ? 

O Delphic Apollo ! 



TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT 
ME A LAUREL CROWN 

First printed by Lord Houghton in the Life, 
Letters and Literary Remains, but undated. 

Fresh morning gusts have blown away all 
fear 

From my glad bosom, — now from gloom- 
iness 

I mount for ever — not an atom less 



8 



EARLY POEMS 



Than the proud laurel shall content my 

bier. 
No ! by the eternal stars ! or why sit here 
In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples 

press 
Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless 
By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear. 
Lo ! who dares say, ' Do this ? ' Who dares 
call down 
My will from its high purpose ? Who 
say, ' Stand,' 
Or ' Go ? ' This mighty moment I would 
frown 
On abject Csesars — not the stoutest 
band 
Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown : 
Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle 
band ! 

SONNET 

Published in the 1817 volume. Lord Hough- 
ton states that this sonnet ' was the means of 
introducing Keats to Mr. Leigh Hunt's society. 
Mr. Cowden Clarke had brought some of his 
young friend's verses and read them aloud. 
Mr. Horace Smith, who happened to be there, 
was struck with the last six lines, especially 
the penultimate, saying " what a well condensed 
expression ! " and Keats was shortly after in- 
troduced to the literary circle.' This would 
appear to fix the date as not later than the 
summer of 1815. 

How many bards gild the lapses of time ! 
A few of them have ever been the food 
Of my delighted fancy, — I could brood 
Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime : 
And often, when I sit me down to rhyme. 
These will in throngs before my mind 

intrude. 
But no confusion, no disturbance rude 
Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime. 
So the unnumber'd sounds that evening 
store ; 
The songs of birds — the whispering of 

the leaves — 
The voice of waters — the great bell 
that heaves 



With solemn sound, — and thousand others 
more, 
That distance of recognizance bereaves. 
Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar. 



SONNET 

According to Charles Cowden Clarke, this 
sonnet was written upon Keats first visiting 
Hunt in the Vale of Health. It was published 
in the 1817 volume. 

Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and 
there 

Among the bushes, half leafless and dry, 

The stars look very cold about the sky, 
And I have many miles on foot to fare. 
Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air. 

Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily. 

Or of those silver lamps that burn on 
high. 
Or of the distance from home's pleasant 

lair: 
For I am brimful of the friendliness 

That in a little cottage I have found; 
Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress. 

And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd ; 
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress. 

And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd. 



SPENSERIAN STANZA 

WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF CANTO II. 
BOOK V. OF 'THE FAERIE QUEENE ' 

Given by Lord Houghton in Life, Letters and 
Literary Memains, who comments as follows: 
' His sympathies were very mucli on the side 
of the revolutionary Giant, who "undertook for 
to repair " the " realms and nations run awry," 
and to suppress " tyrants that make men sub- 
ject to their law," " and lordings curbe that 
commons over-aw," while he grudged the le- 
gitimate victory, as he rejected the conserva- 
tive philosophy, of the "righteous Artegall" 
and his comrade, the fierce defender of privi- 
lege and order. And he expressed in this 
ex post facto prophecy, his ct 'icti'^- f '^^ 



/' 



EPISTLE TO GEORGE FELTON MATHEW 



ultimate triumph of freedom and equality by 
the power of transmitted knowledge.' No 
date is assigned, and the verse may as well he 
placed in the early period of Keats's acquaint- 
ance with Spenser and friendship with Leigh 
Hunt. 

In after-time, a sage of mickle lore 
Yclep'd Typographus, the Giant took, 
And did refit his limbs as heretofore, 
Aud made him read in raauy a learned 

book, 
And into many a lively legend look; 
Thereby in goodly themes so training 

him, 
That all his brutishness he quite for- 
sook, 
When, meeting Artegall and Talus grim. 
The one he struck stone-blind, the other's 
eyes wox dim. 



ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS 
AT AN EARLY HOUR 

Written, as Clarke intimates, in connection 
with Keats's visits to Leigh Hunt in the Vale 
of Health. Published in the 1817 volume. 

Give me a golden pen, and let me lean 
On heap'd-up flowers, in regions clear 

and far; 
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star. 
Or hand of hymning angel, when 't is seen 
The silver strings of heavenly harp at ween: 
And let there glide by many a pearly 

car, 
Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond 
jar, 
And half - discover'd wings, and glances 

keen. 
The while let music wander round my ears. 
And as it reaches each delicious ending. 
Let me write down a line of glorious 
tone. 
And full of marv wonders of the spheres: 
For what a height m* ' "is contend- 
ing! 
'Tis not content so soon 'o be alone. 



ON FIRST LOOKING INTO 
CHAPMAN'S HOMER 

It was Charles Cowden Clarke who was with 
Keats when the friends made the acquaintance 
of this translation of Homer by the EHza- 
bethan poet. The two young men had sat up 
nearly aU one night in the summer of 1815 in 
Clarke's lodging, reading from a folio volume 
of the book which they had borrowed. Keats 
left for his own lodgings at dawn, and when 
Clarke came down to breakfast the next morn- 
ing, he found this sonnet which Keats had 
sent him. 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of 
gold. 
And many goodly states and kingdoms 

seen; 
Round many western islands have I been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his 

demesne: 
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and 

bold: 
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
When a new planet swims into his ken; 
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 
He stared at the Pacific — and all his 
men 
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — 
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 



EPISTLE TO GEORGE FELTON 
MATHEW 

Mathew, who was of Keats's age, was his 
companion when he first went to London. The 
two had common tastes in literature and read 
together, and Mathew also made essays in 
writing, so that Keats, who was living much in 
Elizabethan literature at the time, might easily 
transfer in imagination some of the great deeds 
of partnership to himself and his friend. It 
is worth while to note Mathew's own recollec- 
tion, thirty years later, of the contrast of him- 



EARLY POEMS 



self with Keats: ' Keats and I, though about 
the same age, and both inclined to literature, 
were in many respects as different as two in- 
dividuals could be. He enjoyed good health — 
a fine flow of animal spirits — was fond of 
company — could amuse himself admirably 
with the frivolities of life — and had great 
confidence in himself. I, on the other hand, 
was languid and melancholy — fond of repose 
— thoughtful beyond my years — and diffi- 
dent to the last degree.' The epistle is dated 
November, 1815, in the volume of 1817, where 
it is the first of a group of three epistles with 
the motto from Browne's Britannia's Pas- 
torals : 

Among the rest a shepherd (though but young 
Yet hartned to his pipe) with all the skill 
His few yeeres could, began to fit his quill. 

Sweet are the pleasures that to verse 
belong, 
And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song; 
Nor can remembrance, Mathew ! bring to 

view 
A fate more pleasing, a delight more true 
Than that in which the brother Poets joy'd, 
Who, with combined powers, their wit em- 

ploy'd 
To raise a trophy to the drama's muses. 
The thought of this great partnership dif- 
fuses 
Over the genius-loving heart, a feeling 
Of all that 's high, and great, and good, 
and healing. lo 

Too partial friend ! fain would I follow 

thee 
Past each horizon of fine poesy; 
Fain would I echo back each pleasant note 
As o'er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float 
'Mong the light skimming gondolas far 

parted, 
Just when the sun his farewell beam has 

darted : 
But 't is impossible ; far different cares 
Beckon me sternly from soft ' Lydian airs,' 
And hold my faculties so long in thrall, 
That I am oft in doubt whether at all 20 
I shall again see Phoebus in the morning: 
Or flush'd Aurora iu the roseate dawning ! 



Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream ; 
Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam ; 
Or again witness what with thee I 've seen, 
The dew by fairy feet swept from the 

green, 
After a night of some quaint jubilee 
Which every elf and fay had come to see: 
When bright processions took their airy 

march 
Beneath the curved moon's triumphal 

arch. 30 

But might I now each passing moment 
give 

To the coy Muse, with me she would not 
live 

In this dark city, nor would condescend 

'Mid contradictions her delights to lend. 

Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be 
kind. 

Ah ! surely it must be whene'er I find 

Some flowery spot, sequester'd, wild, ro- 
mantic, 

That often must have seen a poet fran- 
tic; 

Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are 
growing. 

And flowers, the glory of one day, are 
blowing; 40 

Where the dark-leav'd laburnum's droop- 
ing clusters 

Reflect athwart the stream their yellow 
lustres. 

And intertwined the cassia's arms unite. 

With its own drooping buds, but very white. 

Where on one side are covert branches 
hung, 

'Mong which the nightingales have always 
sung 

In leafy quiet: where to pry, aloof 

Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof, 

Would be to find where violet beds were 
nestling, 

And where the bee with cowslip bells was 
wrestling. 5° 

There must be too a ruin da '■'v d gloomy, 

To say ' Joy not ;i;uch in all that 's 

bloomy.' 



TO 



Yet this is vain — O Mathew, lend tby 

aid 
To find a place where I may greet the 

maid — 
Where we may soft humanity put on, 
And sit, and rhyme, and think on Chatter- 
ton; 
And that warm-hearted Shakspeare sent to 

meet him 
Four laurell'd spirits, heavenward to en- 
treat him. 
With reverence would we speak of all the 

sages 
Who have left streaks of light athwart 

their ages: 60 

And tliou shouldst moralize on Milton's 

blindness. 
And mourn the fearful dearth of human 

kindness 
To those who strove with the bright golden 

wing 
Of genius, to flap away each sting 
Thrown by the pitiless world. We next 

could tell 
Of those who in the cause of freedom fell; 
Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell; 
Of him whose name to every heart's a 

solace. 
High - minded and unbending William 

Wallace. 
While to the rugged north our musing 

turns, 70 

We well might drop a tear for him and 

Burns. 

Felton ! without incitements such as these. 
How vain for me the niggard Muse to 

tease : 
For thee, she will thy every dwelling grace. 
And make ' a sunshine in a shady place: ' 
For thou wast once a flow'ret blooming 

wild. 
Close to the source, bright, pure, and unde- 

fil'd. 
Whence gush the streams of song: in 

happy hour 
Came chaste Diana from her shady bower, 
Just as the sun was from the east uprising; 



And, as for him some gift she was devising. 
Beheld thee, pluck'd thee, cast thee in the 

stream 82 

To meet her glorious brother's greeting 

beam. 
I marvel much that thou hast never told 
How, from a flower, into a fish of gold 
Apollo chang'd thee: how thou next didst 

seem 
A black-ey'd swan upon the widening 

stream ; 
And when thou first didst in that mirror 

trace 
The placid features of a human face; 
That thou hast never told thy travels 

strange, 90 

And all the wonders of the mazy range 
O'er pebbly crystal, and o'er golden sands; 
Kissing thy daily food from Naiads' pearly 

hands. 



TO 

A valentine written in 1816 by Keats for his 
brother George to send to the lady Georgiana 
Wylie, whom he afterward married, was later 
expanded into the following lines. It was in- 
cluded in the 1817 volume. For the original 
valentine see the notes at the end of this 
volume. 

Hadst thou liv'd in days of old, 

O what wonders had been told 

Of thy lively countenance, 

And thy humid eyes that dance 

In the midst of their own brightness; 

In the very fane of lightness ; 

Over which thine eyebrows, leaning, 

Picture out each lovely meaning: 

In a dainty bend they lie. 

Like to streaks across the sky, 10 

Or the feathers from a crow, 

Fallen on a bed of snow. 

Of thy dark hair, that extends 

Into many graceful bends: 

As the leaves of Hellebore 

Turn to whence they sprung before. 

And behind each ample curl 



EARLY POEMS 



Peeps the richness of a pearl. 
Downward too flows many a tress 
With a glossy waviness; 20 

Full, and round like globes that rise 
From the censer to the skies 
Through sunny air. Add too, the sweet- 
ness 
Of thy honied voice; the neatness 
Of thine ankle lightly turn'd: 
With those beauties scarce discern'd, 
Kept with such s^eet privacy, 
That they seldom meet the eye 
Of the little Loves that fly 
Round about with eager pry; 30 

Saving when, with freshening lave. 
Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave; 
Like twin water-lilies, bora 
In the coolness of the morn. 
O, if thou hadst breath^ then, 
Now the Muses had been ten. 
Couldst thou wish for lineage higher 
Than twin-sister of Thalia ? 
At least for ever, evermore 
Will I call the Graces four. 40 

Hadst thou liv'd when chivalry 

Lifted up her lance on high, 

Tell me what thou wouldst have been ? 

Ah ! I see the silver sheen 

Of thy broider'd, floating vest 

Cov'ring half thine ivory breast: 

Which, O Heavens ! I should see, 

But that cruel Destiny 

Has plac'd a golden cuirass there; 

Keeping secret what is fair. 50 

Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested 

Thy locks in knightly casque are rested: 

O'er which bend four milky plumes 

Like the gentle lily's blooms 

Springing from a costly vase. 

See with what a stately pace 

Comes thine alabaster steed; 

Servant of heroic deed ! 

O'er his loins his trappings glow 

Like the northern lights on snow. 60 

Mount his back ! thy sword uusheath ! 

Sign of the enchanter's death; 

Bane of every wicked spell; 



Silencer of dragon's yell. 
Alas ! thou this wilt never do: 
Thou art an enchantress too, 
And wilt surely never spill 
Blood of those whose eyes can kill. 



SONNET 

Lord Houghton gives the date of 1816. It 
appears in the Aldine edition of 1876. 

As from the darkening gloom a silver dove 
Upsoars, and darts into the eastern light. 
On pinions that nought moves but pure 
delight, 
So fled thy soul into the realms above, 
Regions of peace and everlasting love; 
Where happy spirits, crown'd with cir- 
clets bright 
Of starry beam, and gloriously bedight. 
Taste the high joy none but the blest can 

prove. 
There thou or joinest the immortal quire 

In melodies that even heaven fair 
Fill with superior bliss, or, at desire. 

Of the omnipotent Father, cleav'st the 
air 
On holy message sent — What pleasure 's 
higher ? 
Wherefore does any grief our joy impair ? 

SONNET TO SOLITUDE 

Published in The Examiner, 5 May, 1816, and 
the first piece printed by Keats. It was re- 
issued in the 1817 volume. 

O Solitude ! if I must with thee dwell. 
Let it not be among the jumbled heap 
Of murky buildings: climb with me the 
steep, — 
Nature's observatory, — whence the dell. 
In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, 
May seem a span ; let me thy vigils keep 
'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the 
deer's swift leap 
Startles the wild bee from the foxglove 
bell. 



SONNET 



13 



But though I '11 gladly trace these scenes 
with thee, 
Yet the sweet converse of an innocent 

mind, 

Whose words are images of thoughts re- 

fin'd, 

Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be 

Almost the highest bliss of human-kind, 

When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. 



SONNET 

George Keats has a memorandum on this 
sonnet, ' written in the Fields, June, 1816.' 
Published in the 1817 volume. 

To one who has been long in city pent, 
'T is very sweet to look into the fair 
And open face of heaven, — to breathe 
a prayer 
Full in the smile of the blue firmament. 
Who is more happy, when, with heart's 
content, 
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 
And gentle tale of love and languishment ? 
Returning home at evening, with an ear 

Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye 
Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright ca- 
reer, 
He mourns that day so soon has glided 
by: 
E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 
That falls through the clear ether si- 
lently. 



TO A FRIEND WHO SENT 
SOME ROSES 



ME 



The friend was Charles J. Wells, author of 
the dramatic poem Joseph and his Brethren, 
which was published in 1824, when it died al- 
most at once and was recalled to life by a few 
words printed by D. G. Rossetti in 1863, and has 
since been reprinted for the curious. In Tom 
Keats's copy book the sonnet is dated 29 June, 
1816. It is included in the volume of 1817. 



As late I rambled in the happy fields. 
What time the skylark shakes the tremu- 
lous dew 
From his lush clover covert ; — when anew 
Adventurous knights take up their dinted 

shields: 
I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, 
A fresh-blown musk-rose ; 't was the first 

that threw 
Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it 
grew 
As is the wand that Queen Titania wields. 
And, as I feasted on its fragraucy, 

I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd: 

But when, O Wells ! thy roses came to me. 

My sense with their deliciousness was 

spell'd: 

Soft voices had they, that with tender plea 

Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and 

friendliness unquell'd. 



SONNET 

First printed by Lord Houghton in the Life, 
Letters and Literary Remains, with the date 
1816. 

Oh ! how I love, on a fair summer's eve. 
When streams of light pour down the 

golden west. 
And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest 
The silver clouds, far — far away to leave 
All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet re- 
prieve 
From little cares ; to find, with easy quest, 
A fragrant wild, with Nature's beauty 
drest. 
And there into delight my soul deceive. 
There warm my breast with patriotic lore. 
Musing on Milton's fate — on Sydney's 
bier — 
Till their stern forms before my mind 
arise: 
Perhaps on wings of Poesy upsoar. 
Full often dropping a delicious tear. 
When some melodious sorrow spells 
mine eyes. 



ii 



14 



EARLY POEMS 



'I STOOD TIPTOE UPON A 
LITTLE HILL' 

' Places of nestling green, for poets made.' 

Leigh Hunt, The Story of Bimini. 

Leigh Hunt, in Lord Byron and Some of His 
Contemporaries, says that ' this poem was sug- 
gested to Keats by a delightful summer's day 
as he stood beside the gate that leads from the 
Battery on Hampstead Heath into a field by 
Caen Wood ; ' but it is not needful for one to 
put himself into the same geograpliieal position. 
It is more to the point to remember that when 
Keats wrote the lines which here follow he was 
living in the Vale of Health in Hampstead, 
happy in the association of Hunt and kindred 
spirits, and trembling with the consciousness of 
his own poetic power. He had not yet essayed 
a long flight, as in Endymion ; but these lines 
indeed were written as a prelude to a poem 
which he was devising, which should narrate 
the loves of Diana, and it will be seen how, 
with circling flight, he draws nearer and nearer 
to his theme ; but after all, his song ends with 
a half agitated and passionate speculation over 
his own poetic birth. The date of the poem, 
which is the first after the dedication, in the 
1817 volume, was presumably in the summer 
of 1816, for Keats appears to have written 
promptly under the stimulus of momentary 
experience. 

I STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill, 
The air was cooling, and so very still 
That the sweet buds which with a modest 

pride 
Pull droopingly, in slanting cnrve aside, 
Their scantly-Ieav'd and finely tapering 

stems, 
Had not yet lost those starry diadems 
Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. 
The clouds were pure and white as flocks 

new shorn. 
And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly 

they slept 
On the blue fields of heaven, and then there 

crept 10 

A little noiseless noise among the leaves, 
Born of the very sigh that silence heaves ; 
For not the faintest motion could be seen 



Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. 
There was wide wandering for the greedi- 
est eye 
To peer about upon variety; 
Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, 
And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim ; 
To picture out the quaint and curious 

bending 
Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending: 20 
Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves. 
Guess where the jaunty streams refresh 

themselves. 
I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free 
As though the fanning wings of Mercury 
Had play'd upon my heels: I was light- 
hearted. 
And many pleasures to my vision started; 
So I straightway began to pluck a posy 
Of luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosy. 

A bush of May flowers with the bees 
about them; 

Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without 
them ! 30 

And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, 

And let long grass grow round the roots 
to keep them 

Moist, cool, and green; and shade the vio- 
lets, 

That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. 

A filbert-hedge with wild-briar over- 

twin'd. 
And clumps of woodbine taking the soft 

wind 
Upon their summer thrones; there too 

should be 
The frequent chequer of a youngling tree, 
That with a score of light green brethren 

shoots 
From the quaint mossiness of aged roots: 40 
Round which is heard a spring-head of 

clear waters 
Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters. 
The spreading blue-bells: it may haply 

mourn 
That such fair clusters should be rudely 

torn 



I STOOD TIPTOE UPON A LITTLE HILL 



IS 



From their fresh beds, aud scattered 

thoughtlessly 
By infant hands, left on the path to die. 

Open afresh your round of starry folds. 
Ye ardent marigolds ! 
Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, 
For great Apollo bids so 

That in these days your praises should be 

sung 
On many harps, which he has lately strung; 
And when again your dewiness he kisses. 
Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses : 
So haply when I rove in some far vale, 
His mighty voice may come upon the gale. 

Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a 

flight: 
With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate 

white. 
And taper fingers catching at all things. 
To bind them all about with tiny rings. 60 

Linger awhile upon some bending planks 
That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks. 
And watch intently Nature's gentle doings : 
They will be found softer than ring-dove's 

cooings. 
How silent comes the water round that bend; 
Not the minutest whisper does it send 
To the o'erhanging sallows: blades of grass 
Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass. 
Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they 

reach 
To where the hurrying freshnesses aye 

preach 70 

A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds ; 
Where swarms of minnows show their little 

heads, 
Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the 

streams, 
To taste the luxury of sunny beams 
Temper'd with coolness. How they ever 

wrestle 
With their own sweet delight, and ever 

nestle 
Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand. 
If you but scantily hold out the hand, 



That very instant not one will remain ; 
But turn your eye, and they are there again. 
The ripples seem right glad to reach those 

cresses, 81 

And cool themselves among the em'rald 

tresses; 
The while they cool themselves, they fresh- 
ness give. 
And moisture, that the bowery green may 

live : 
So keeping up an interchange of favours, 
Like good men in the truth of their be- 
haviours. 
Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop 
From low-hung branches; little space they 

stop; 
But sip, and twitter, and their feathers 

sleek; 
Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: 90 
Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden 

wings, 
Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. 
Were I in such a place, I sure should pray 
That nought less sweet, might call my 

thoughts away, 
Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown 
Fanning away the dandelion's down; 
Than the light music of her nimble toes 
Patting against the sorrel as she goes. 
How she would start, and blush, thus to be 

caught 
Playing in all her innocence of thought. 100 
O let me lead her gently o'er the brook. 
Watch her half -smiling lips, and downward 

look; 
O let me for one moment touch her wrist; 
Let me one moment to her breathing list; 
And as she leaves me, may she often turn 
Her fair eyes looking through her locks au- 

burne. 
What next ? A tuft of evening primroses, 
O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes ; 
O'er which it well might take a pleasant 

sleep. 
But that 't is ever startled by the leap 1 10 
Of buds into ripe flowers ; or by the flitting 
Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are 

quitting; 



i6 



EARLY POEMS 



Or by the moon lifting her silver rim 
Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim 
Coming into the blue with all her light. 
O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight 
Of this fair world, and aU its gentle livers; 
Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, 
Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling 

streams, 
Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, 120 
Lover of loneliness, and wandering. 
Of upcast eye, and tender pondering ! 
Thee must I praise above all other glo- 
ries 
That smile us on to tell delightful stories. 
For what has made the sage or poet write 
But the fair paradise of Nature's light ? 
In the calm grandeur of a sober line. 
We see the waving of the mountain pine; 
And when a tale is beautifully staid. 
We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade : 130 
When it is moving on luxurious wings. 
The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings: 
Fair dewy roses brush against our faces. 
And flowering laurels spring from diamond 

vases; 
O'erhead we see the jasmine and sweet- 
briar, 
And bloomy grapes laughing from green 

attire ; 
While at our feet, the voice of crystal 

bubbles 
Charms us at once away from all our trou- 
bles: 
So that we feel uplifted from the world. 
Walking upon the white clouds wreath'd 
and curl'd. 140 

So felt he, who first told, how Psyche 

went 
On the smooth wind to realms of wonder- 
ment; 
What Psyche felt, and Love, when their 

full lips 
First touch'd; what amorous and fondling 

nips 
They gave each other's cheeks; with all 

their sighs. 
And how they kist each other's tremulous 
eyes: 



The silver lamp, — the ravishment, — the 

wonder — 
The darkness, — loneliness, — the fearful 

thunder; 
Their woes gone by, and both to heaven up- 
flown, 149 
To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne. 
So did he feel, who puU'd the boughs 

aside, 
That we might look into a forest vsdde, 
To catch a glimpse of Fauns, and Dryades 
Coming with softest rustle through the 

trees; 
And garlands woven of flowers wild, and 

sweet, 
Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet: 
Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled 
Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread. 
Poor Nymph, — poor Pan, — how he did 

weep to find 
Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind 160 
Along the reedy stream ; a half-heard strain, 
Full of sweet desolation — balmy pain. 

What first inspired a bard of old to sing 
Narcissus pining o'er the untainted spring ? 
In some delicious ramble, he had found 
A little space, with boughs all woven round; 
And in the midst of all, a clearer pool 
Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool. 
The blue sky here, and there, serenely peep- 
ing 
Through tendril wreaths fantastically creep- 
ing. 170 
And on the bank a lonely flower he spied, 
A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of 

pride, 
Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clear- 
ness. 
To woo its own sad image into nearness: 
Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move; 
But still would seem to droop, to pine, to 

love. 
So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot, 
Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy 

shot; 
Nor was it long ere he had told the tale 
Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale. 180 



I STOOD TIPTOE UPON A LITTLE HILL 



17 



Where had he been, from whose warm 

head outflew 
'hat sweetest of all songs, thf t ever new, 
'hat aye refreshing, pure delii^iousness, 
oming ever to bless 
'he wanderer by moonlight ? to him 

bringing 
hapes from the invisible world, unearthly 

singing 
rom out the middle air, from flowery 

nests, 
.nd from the pillowy silkiness that rests 
nil in the speculation of the stars. 189 

h ! surely he had burst our mortal bars; 
ato some wond'rous region he had gone, 
'o search for thee, divine Endymion ! 

He was a Poet, sure a lover too, 
7ho stood on Latmus' top, what time 

there blew 
oft breezes from the myrtle vale below; 
nd brought in faintness solemn, sweet, 

and slow 
. hymn from Dian's temple; while up- 
swelling, 
lie incense went to her own starry dwell- 
ing, 
ut though her face was clear as infant's 
eyes, 199 

hough she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice, 
he Poet wept at her so piteous fate, 
^ept that such beauty should be deso- 
late: 
in fine wrath some golden sounds he won, 
nd gave meek Cynthia her Endymion. 

Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely 

queen 
f all the brightness that mine eyes have 

seen ! 
s thou exceedest all things in thy shine, 
o every tale, does this sweet tale of thine. 
' for three words of honey, that I might 
'ell but one wonder of thy bridal night ! 2 10 

Where distant ships do seem to show 

their keels, 
hcebus awhile delay'd his mighty wheels. 



And turn'd to smile upon thy bashful eyes, 

Ere he his unseen pomp would solem- 
nize. 

The evening weather was so bright, and 
clear, 

That men of health were of unusual cheer; 

Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's 
call, 

Or young Apollo on the pedestal: 

And lovely women were as fair and warm, 

As Venus looking sideways in alarm. 220 

The breezes were ethereal, and pure. 

And crept through half closed lattices to 
cure 

The languid sick; it cool'd their fever'd 
sleep, 

And soothed them into slumbers full and 
deep. 

Soon they awoke clear-eyed: nor burnt 
with thirsting, 

Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples 
bursting: 

And springing up, they met the wond'ring 
sight 

Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with 
delight; 

Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss 
and stare. 

And on their placid foreheads part the 
hair. 230 

Young men and maidens at each other 
gaz'd. 

With hands held back, and motionless, 
amaz'd 

To see the brightness in each other's eyes; 

And so they stood, fiU'd with a sweet sur- 
prise. 

Until their tongues were loos'd in poesy. 

Therefore no lover did of anguish die: 

But the soft numbers, in that moment 
spoken. 

Made silken ties, that never may be broken. 

Cynthia ! I cannot tell the greater blisses 

That foUow'd thine, and thy dear shep- 
herd's kisses: 240 

Was there a Poet born ? — But now no 
more, 

My wand'ring spirit must no further soar. 



i8 



EARLY POEMS 



SLEEP AND POETRY 

The last poem in the 1817 volume. Charles 
Cowden Clarke relates that ' it was in the 
library of Hmit's cottage, where an extempore 
bed had been put up for Keats on the sofa, that 
he composed the framework and many lines 
of this poem, the last sixty or seventy being 
an inventory of the art garniture of the room.' 
It may be assigned to the summer of 1816. 

As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete 
Was unto me, but why that I ne might 
Rest I ne wist, for there n' as erthly wight 
(As I suppose) had more of hertis ese 
Than I, for I n' ad sicknesse nor disese. 

Chaucer. 

What is more gentle than a wind in sum- 
mer ? 

What is more soothing than the pretty 
hummer 

That stays one moment in an open flower, 

And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower ? 

What is more tranquil than a musk-rose 
blowing 

In a green island, far from all men's know- 
ing? 

More healthful than the leafiness of dales ? 

More secret than a nest of nightingales ? 

More serene than Cordelia's countenance ? 

More full of visions than a high romance ? 

What, but thee, Sleep ? Soft closer of our 
eyes ! 1 1 

Low murmurer of tender lullabies ! 

Light hoverer around our happy pillows ! 

Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping 
willows ! 

Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses ! 

Most happy listener ! when the morning 
blesses 

Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes 

That glance so brightly at the new sun- 
rise. 

But what is higher beyond thought than 

thee? 
Fresher than berries of a mountain-tree ? 
More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, 

more regal, 21 



Than wings o:^ swans, than doves, than dim- 
seen ekgle ? 
What is it ? } And to what shall I compare 

it ? j 
It has a gloijy, and nought else can share it: 
The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and 

holy, 
Chasing away all worldliness and folly: 
Coming sometimes like fearful claps of 

thunder, 
Or the low rumblings earth's regions un- 
der; 
And sometimes like a gentle whispering 29 
Of all the secrets of some wond'rous thing 
That breathes about us in the vacant air; 
So that we look around with prying stare. 
Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial lim- 
ning; 
And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard 

hymning; 
To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended. 
That is to crown our name when life is 

ended. 
Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice, 
And from the heart up-springs, rejoice ! 



rejoice 



Sounds which will reach the Framer of all 

things, 
And die away in ardent mutterings. 40 

No one who once the glorious sun has 

seen, 
And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean 
For his great Maker's presence, but must 

know 
What 't is I mean, and feel his being glow; 
Therefore no insult will I give his spirit. 
By telling what he sees from native merit. 

O Poesy ! for thee I hold my pen, 
That am not yet a glorious deuizen 
Of thy wide heaven — should I rather kneel j 
Upon some mountain-top until I feel 5c | 
A growing splendour round about me hung 
And echo back the voice of thine owi | 

tongue ? 
O Poesy ! for thee I grasp my pen. 
That am not yet a glorious denizen 



SLEEP AND POETRY 



19 



Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent 

prayer; 
Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, 
Smoothed for intoxication by the breath 
Of flowering bays, that I may die a death 
Of luxury, and my young spirit follow 
The morning sunbeams to the great Apollo 
Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bear 61 
The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to 

me the fair 
Visions of all places : a bowery nook 
Will be elysium — an eternal book 
Whence I may copy many a lovely saying 
About the leaves, and flowers — about the 

playing 
Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and 

the shade 
Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid; 
And many a verse from so strange influence 
That we must ever wonder how, and whence 
It came. Also imaginings will hover 71 
Round my fire-side, and haply there dis- 
cover 
Vistas of solemn beauty, where I 'd wander 
In happy silence, like the clear Meander 
Through its lone vales; and where I found 

a spot 
Of awfuUer shade, or an enchanted grot. 
Or a green hill o'erspread with chequer'd 

dress 
Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness. 
Write on my tablets all that was permitted, 
All that was for our human senses fitted. 
Then the events of this wide world I 'd 

seize 81 

Like a strong giant, and my spirit tease 
Till at its shoulders it should proudly see 
Wings to find out an immortality. 

Stop and consider ! life is but a day; 
A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way 
From a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleep 
While his boat hastens to the monstrous 

steep 
Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan ? 
Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown; 
The reading of an ever-changing tale; 91 
The light uplifting of a maiden's veil; 



A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air; 
A laughing school-boy, without grief or 

care. 
Riding the springy branches of an elm. 

O for ten years, that I may overwhelm 
Myself in poesy ; so I may do the deed 
That my own soul has to itself decreed. 
Then I will pass the countries that I see 
In long perspective, and continually 100 
Taste their pure fountains. First the realm 

I '11 pass 
Of Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass. 
Feed upon apples red, and strawberries. 
And choose each pleasure that my fancy 

sees; 
Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady 

places, 
To woo sweet kisses from averted faces, — 
Play with their fingers, touch their shoul- 
ders white 
Into a pretty shrinking with a bite 
As hard as lips can make it: till agreed, 
A lovely tale of human life we '11 read, no 
And one will teach a tame dove how it best 
May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest; 
Another, bending o'er her nimble tread, 
Will set a green robe floating round her 

head. 
And still will dance with ever-varied ease, 
Smiling upon the flowers and the trees : 
Another will entice me on, and on 
Through almond blossoms and rich cinna- 
mon; 
Till in the bosom of a leafy world 
We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'd 
In the recesses of a pearly shell. 121 

And can I ever bid these joys farewell ? 
Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life, 
Where I may find the agonies, the strife 
Of human hearts: for lo ! I see afar, 
O'er-sailing the blue cragginess, a car 
And steeds with streamy manes — the 

charioteer 
Looks out upon the ^vinds with glorious fear: 
And now the numerous tramplings quiver 

lightly 



20 



EARLY POEMS 



Along a huge cloud's ridge; and now with 
sprightly 130 

Wheel downward come they into fresher 
skies, 

Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright 
eyes. 

Still downward with capacious whirl they 
glide; 

And now I see them on a green-hill's side 

In breezy rest among the nodding stalks. 

The charioteer with wond'rous gesture 
talks 

To the trees and mountains ; and there soon 
appear 

Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear. 

Passing along before a dusky space 

Made by some mighty oaks : as they would 
chase 140 

Some ever-fleeting music, on they sweep. 

Lo ! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, 
and weep: 

Some with upholden hand and mouth severe ; 

Some with their faces muffled to the ear 

Between their arms; some, clear in youth- 
ful bloom, 

Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom; 

Some looking back, and some with upward 
gaze; 

Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways 

Flit onward — now a lovely wreath of girls 

Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls ; 

And now broad wings. Most awfully in- 
tent 151 

The driver of those steeds is forward bent. 

And seems to listen: O that I might know 

All that he writes with such a hurrying 
glow. 

The visions all are fled — the car is fled 
Into the light of heaven, and in their stead 
A sense of real things comes doubly strong, 
And, like a muddy stream, would bear 

along 
My soul to nothingness: but I will strive 
Against all doubtings, and will keep alive 
The thought of that same chariot, and the 

strange 161 

Journey it went. 



Is there so small a range 
In the present strength of manhood, that 

the high 
Imagination cannot freely fly 
As she was wont of old ? prepare her 

steeds. 
Paw up against the light, and do strange 

deeds 
Upon the clouds ? Has she not shewn us 

all? 
From the clear space of ether, to the small 
Breath of new buds unfolding ? From the 

meaning 
Of Jove's large eyebrow, to the tender 

greening 170 

Of April meadows ? here her altar shone, 
E'en in this isle; and who could paragon 
The fervid choir that lifted up a noise 
Of harmony, to where it aye will poise 
Its mighty self of eonvolutiug sound, 
Huge as a planet, and like that roll round, 
Eternally around a dizzy void ? 
Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh 

cloy'd 
With honours ; nor had any other care 
Than to sing out and soothe their wavy 

hair. 180 

Could all this be forgotten ? Yes, a 
schism 
Nurtured by foppery aud barbarism, 
Made great Apollo blush for this his land. 
Men were thought wise who could not un- 
derstand 
His glories : with a puling infant's force 
They sway'd about upon a rocking-horse. 
And thought it Pegasus. Ah, dismal-soul'd ! 
The winds of heaven blew, the ocean 

roll'd 
Its gathering waves — ye felt it not. The 

blue 
Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew 190 
Of summer nights collected still to make 
The morning precious: beauty was awake ! 
Why were ye not awake ? But ye were 

dead 
To things ye knew not of, — were closely 
wed 



SLEEP AND POETRY 



To musty laws lined out with wretched 

rule 
And compass vile: so that ye taught a 

school 
Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and 

fit, 
Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit, 
Their verses tallied; Easy was the task: 
A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask 
Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race ! 201 

That blasphem'd the bright Lyrist to his 

face. 
And did not know it, — no, they went about, 
Holding a poor, decrepid standard out, 
Mark'd with most flimsy mottoes, and in 

large 
The name of one Boileau ! 

O ye whose charge 
It is to hover round our pleasant hills ! 
Whose congregated majesty so fills 
My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace 
Your hallowed names, in this unholy place, 
So near those common folk; did not their 

shames 2 1 1 

Affright you ? Did our old lamenting 

Thames 
Delight you ? did ye never cluster round 
Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound, 
And weep ? Or did ye wholly bid adieu 
To regions where no more the laurel grew ? 
Or did ye stay to give a welcoming 
To some lone spirits who could proudly 

sing 
Their youth away, and die ? 'T was even 

so: 219 

But let me think away those times of woe: 
Now 't is a fairer season ; ye have breathed 
Rich benedictions o'er us ; ye have wreathed 
Fresh garlands: for sweet music has been 

heard 
In many places; — some has been upstirr'd 
From out its crystal dwelling in a lake, 
By a swan's ebon bill; from a thick brake, 
Nested and quiet in a valley mild. 
Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating 

wild 
About the earth: happy are ye and glad. 



These things are, doubtless; yet in truth 

we 've had 230 

Strange thunders from the potency of song; 
Mingled indeed with what is sweet and 

strong 
From majesty: but in clear truth the themes 
Are ugly clubs, the Poets Polyphemes 
Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless 

shower 
Of light is Poesy; 'tis the supreme of 

power; 
'T is might half slumb'ring on its own right 

arm. 
The very archings of her eyelids charm 
A thousand willing agents to obey, 
And still she governs with the mildest sway: 
But strength alone though of the Muses 

born 241 

Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn, 
Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and 

sepulchres 
Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs 
And thorns of life; forgetting the great 

end 
Of Poesy, that it should be a friend 
To soothe the cares, and lift the thoughts 

of man. 

Yet I rejoice : a myrtle fairer than 248 
E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds 
Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds 
A silent space with ever sprouting green. 
All tenderest birds there find a pleasant 

screen. 
Creep through the shade with jaunty flut- 
tering, 
Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing. 
Then let us clear away the choking thorns 
From round its gentle stem; let the young 

fawns, 
Yeaned in after-times, when we are flown, 
Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown 
With simple flowers: let there nothing be 
More boisterous than a lover's bended knee; 
Nought more ungentle than the placid look 
Of one who leans upon a closed book; 262 
Nought more untranquil than the grassy 
slopes 



EARLY POEMS 



Between two hills. All hail, delightful 

hopes ! 
As she was wont, th' imagination 
Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone, 
And they shall be accounted poet kings 
Who simply tell the most heart -easing 

things, 
O may these joys be ripe before I die. 

Will not some say that I presumptu- 
ously 270 
Have spoken ? that from hastening disgrace 
'Twere better far to hide my foolish face ? 
That whining boyhood should with rever- 
ence bow 
Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach? 

How! 
If I do hide myself, it sure shall be 
In the very fane, the light of Poesy : 
If I do fall, at least I will be laid 
Beneath the silence of a poplar shade ; 
And over me the grass shall be smooth 

shaven ; 
And there shall be a kind memorial 
graven. 2S0 

But off, Despondence ! miserable bane ! 
They should not know thee, who athirst to 

gain 
A noble end, are thirsty every hour. 
What though I am not wealthy in the dower 
Of spanning wisdom ; though I do not know 
The shiftings of the mighty winds that 

blow 
Hither and thither all the changing 

thoughts 
Of man : though no great minist'ring rea- 
son sorts 
Out the dark mysteries of human souls 
To clear conceiving : yet there ever 
rolls 290 

A vast idea before me, and I glean 
Therefrom my liberty ; thence too I 've 

seen 
The end and aim of Poesy. 'T is clear 
As anything most true ; as that the year 
Is made of the four seasons — manifest 
As a large cross, some old cathedral's 
crest, 



Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore 

should I 
Be but the essence of deformity, 
A coward, did my very eyelids wink 
At speaking out what I have dared to 

think. 300 

Ah ! rather let me like a madman run 
Over some precipice ; let the hot sun 
Melt my Daedalian wings, and drive me 

down 
Convuls'd and headlong ! Stay ! an in- 
ward frown 
Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile. 
An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an 

isle, 
Spreads awfully before me. How much 

toil! 
How many days ! what desperate turmoil ! 
Ere I can have explored its widenesses. 
Ah, what a task ! upon my bended 

knees, 310 

I could unsay those — no, impossible ! 
Impossible ! 

For sweet relief I '11 dwell 
On humbler thoughts, and let this strange 

assay 
Begun in gentleness die so away. 
E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades : 
I turn full-hearted to the friendly aids 
That smooth the path of honour ; brother- 
hood. 
And friendliness the nurse of mutual good. 
The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant 

sonnet 
Into the brain ere one can think upon it; 320 
The silence when some rhymes are coming 

out ; 
And when they 're come, the very pleasant 

rout: 
The message certain to be done to-morrow. 
'T is perhaps as well that it should be to 

borrow 
Some precious book from out its snug 

retreat. 
To cluster round it when we next shall 

meet. 
Scarce can I scribble on ; for lovely airs 



SLEEP AND POETRY 



23 



Are fluttering round the room like doves in 

pairs ; 
Many delights of that glad day recalling, 
When first my senses caught their tender 

falling. 330 

And with these airs come forms of elegance 
Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's 

prance, 
Careless, and grand — fingers soft and 

round 
Parting luxuriant curls ; — and the swift 

bound 
Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye 
Made Ariadne's cheek look bliiGhingly. 
Thus I remember all the pleasant flow 
Of words at opening a portfolio. 

Things such as these are ever harbingers 
To trains of peaceful images : the stirs 340 
Of a swan's neck unseen among the rushes : 
A linnet starting all about the bushes : 
A butterfly, with golden wings broad 

parted. 
Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it 

smarted 
With over pleasure — many, many more. 
Might I indulge at large in all my store 
Of luxuries : yet I must not forget 
Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet : 
For what there may be worthy in these 

rhymes 
I partly owe to him : and thus, the 

chimes 350 

Of friendly voices had just given place 
To as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retrace 
The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease. 
It was a poet's house who keeps the keys 
Of pleasure's temple. Round about were 

hung 
The glorious features of the bards who 

sung 
In other ages — cold and sacred busts 
Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts 
To clear Futurity his darling fame ! 
Then there were fauns and satyrs taking 

aim 360 

At swelling apples with a frisky leap 
And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heap 



Of vine leaves. Then there rose to view a 

fane 
Of liny marble, and thereto a train 
Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the 

sward : 
One, loveliest, holding her white hand 

toward 
The dazzling sunrise : two sisters sweet 
Bending their graceful figures till they meet 
Over the trippings of a little child : 
And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild 370 
Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping. 
See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping 
Cherishingly Diana's timorous limbs ; — 
A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims 
At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle 

motion 
With the subsiding crystal : as when ocean 
Heaves calmly its broad swelling smooth- 

iness o'er 
Its rocky marge, and balances once more 
The patient weeds ; that now unshent by 

foam 
Feel all about their undulating home. 3S0 

Sappho's meek head was there half smiling 

down 
At nothing ; just as though the earnest 

frown 
Of over-thinking had that moment gone 
From off her brow, and left her all alone. 

Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying 

eyes. 
As if he always listened to the sighs 
Of the goaded world ; and Kosciusko's, 

worn 
By horrid suffrance — mightily forlorn. 

Petrarch, outstepping from the shady 

green. 
Starts at the sight of Laura ; nor can 

wean 390 

His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy 

they ! 
For over them was seen a free display 
Of outspread wings, and from between them 

shone 



24 



EARLY POEMS 



The face of Poesy : from off her throne 
She overlook'd thiugs that I scarce could 

tell. 
The very sense of where I was might well 
Keep Sleep aloof : but more than that there 

came 
Thought after thought to nourish up the 

flame 
Within my breast ; so that the morning 

light 
Surprised me even from a sleepless 

night ; 4°° 

And up I rose ref resh'd, and glad, and gay, 
Resolving to begin that very day 
These lines ; and howsoever they be done, 
I leave them as a father does his son. 



EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER 
GEORGE 

Written according to George Keats at Mar- 
gate, August, 1816, and included in the 1817 
volimie. 

Full many a dreary hour have I past, 
My brain bewilder'd, and my mind o'ercast 
With heaviness; in seasons when I've 

thought 
No spherey strains by me could e'er be 

caught 
From the blue dome, though I to dimness 

gaze 
On the far depth where sheeted lightning 

plays; 
Or, on the wavy grass outstretch'd supinely, 
Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think di- 
vinely : 
That I should never hear Apollo's song, 
Though feathery clouds were floating all 
along lo 

The purple west, and, two bright streaks 

between, 
The golden lyre itself were dimly seen: 
That the still murmur of the honey bee 
Would never teach a rural song to me: 
That the bright glance from beauty's eye- 
lids slanting 
Would never make a lay of mine enchanting. 



Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold 
Some tale of love and arms in time of old. 

But there are times, when those that love 

the bay, 
Fly from all sorrowing far, far away; 20 
A sudden glow comes on them, nought 

they see 
In water, earth, or air, but poesy. 
It has been said, dear George, and true I 

hold it, 
(For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,) 
That when a Poet is in such a trance, 
In air he sees white coursers paw and 

prance. 
Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel. 
Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel; 
And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning 

call. 
Is the swift opening of their wide portal, 30 
When the bright warder blows his trumpet 

clear. 
Whose tones reach nought on earth but 

Poet's ear. 
When these enchanted portals open wide. 
And through the light the horsemen swiftly 

glide. 
The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls. 
And view the glory of their festivals: 
Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem 
Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream ; 
Their rich brimm'd goblets, that incessant 

run 
Like the bright spots that move about the 

sun ; 40 

And, when upheld, the wine from each 

bright jar 
Pours with the lustre of a falling star. 
Yet further off are dimly seen their bowers. 
Of which no mortal eye can reach the flow- 
ers; 
And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows 
'T would make the Poet quarrel with the 

rose. 
All that 's reveal'd from that far seat of 

blisses, 
Is, the clear fountains' interchanging kisses. 
As gracefully descending, light and thin. 



EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER GEORGE 



25 



Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin, 50 
When he upsvvimmeth from the coral caves, 
And sports with half his tail above the 
waves. 

These wonders strange he sees, and many 

more, 
Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore. 
Should he upon an evening ramble fare 
With forehead to the soothing breezes bare, 
Would he naught see but the dark, silent 

blue, 
With all its diamonds trembling through 

and through ? 
Or the coy moon, when in the waviness 59 
Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress, 
And staidly paces higher up, and higher. 
Like a sweet nun in holiday attire ? 
Ah, yes ! much more would start into his 

sight — 
The revelries, and mysteries of night: 
And should I ever see them, I will tell you 
Such tales as needs must with amazement 

spell you. 

These are the living pleasures of the 

bard : 
But richer far posterity's award. 
What does he murmur with his latest breath. 
While his proud eye looks through the film 

of death ? 70 

' What though I leave this dull and earthly 

mould. 
Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold 
With after times. — The patriot shall feel 
My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel; 
Or in the senate thunder out my numbers. 
To startle princes from their easy slumbers. 
The sage will mingle with each moral theme 
My happy thoughts sententious; he will 

teem 
With lofty periods when my verses fire 

him, 
And then I '11 stoop from heaven to inspire 

him. 80 

Lays have I left of such a dear delight 
That maids will sing them on their bridal 

night. 



Gay villagers, upon a morn of May, 
When they have tired their gentle limbs 

with play. 
And f orm'd a snowy circle on the grass. 
And plac'd in midst of all that lovely lass 
Who chosen is their queen, — with her fine 

head 
Crowned with flowers purple, white, and 

red: 
For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sigh- 
ing, 89 
Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying: 
Between her breasts, that never yet felt 

trouble, 
A bunch of violets full blown, and double. 
Serenely sleep : — she from a casket takes 
A little book, — and then a joy awakes 
About each youthful heart, — with stifled 

cries. 
And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling 

eyes: 
For she 's to read a tale of hopes and fears ; 
One that I foster'd in my youthful years: 
The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet 

sleep. 
Gush ever and anon with silent creep, 100 
Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet 

rest 
Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's 

breast. 
Be lull'd with songs of mine. Fair world, 

adieu ! 
Thy dales and hills are fading from my 

view: 
Swiftly I mount, upon wide-spreading 

pinions, 
Far from the narrow bounds of thy do- 
minions. 
Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air. 
That my soft verse will charm thy daugh- 
ters fair, 
And warm thy sons ! ' Ah, my dear friend 
and brother, 109 

Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother, 
For tasting joys like these, sure I should be 
Happier, and dearer to society. 
At times, 't is true, I 've felt relief from 
pain 



26 



EARLY POEMS 



When some bright thought has darted 

through my brain: 
Through all that day I 've felt a greater 

pleasure 
Than if I 'd brought to light a hidden trea- 
sure. 
As to my sonnets, though none else should 

heed them, 
I feel delighted, still, that you should read 

them. 
Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoy- 
ment, 
Stretch'd on the grass at my best lov'd em- 
ployment I20 
Of scribbling lines for you. These things 

I thought 
While, in my face, the freshest breeze I 

caught. 
E'en now I 'm pillow'd on a bed of flowers 
That crowns a lofty cliff, which proudly 

towers 
Above the ocean waves. The stalks and 

blades 
Chequer my tablet with their quivering 

shades. 
On one side is a field of drooping oats. 
Through which the poppies show their 

scarlet coats; 12S 

So pert and useless, that they bring to mind 
The scarlet coats that pester human-kind. 
And on the other side, outspread, is seen 
Ocean's blue mantle, streak'd with purple, 

and green; 
Now 't is I see a canvass'd ship, and now 
Mark the bright silver curling round her 

prow. 
I see the lark down-dropping to his nest, 
And the broad-winged sea-gull never at rest; 
For when no more he spreads his feathers 

free, 
His breast is dancing on the restless sea. 
Now I direct my eyes into the west, 
Which at this moment is in sunbeams 

drest: 140 

Why westward turn ? 'T was but to say 

adieu ! 
'T was but to kiss my hand, dear George, 

to you ! 



TO MY BROTHER GEORGE 

The first in the group of sonnets in the 1817 
volume. A transcript by George Keats bears 
the date ' Margate, August, 1816.' 

Many the wonders I this day have seen: 
The sun, when first he kist away the tears 
That fill'd the eyes of morn; — the lau- 
rell'd peers 
Who from the feathery gold of evening 

lean ; — 
The ocean with its vastness, its blue green, 
Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, 

its fears, — 
Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears 
Must think on what will be, and what has 

been. 
E'en now, dear George, while this for you I 
write, 
Cynthia is from her silken curtains peep- 
ing 
So scantly, that it seems her bridal night. 
And she her half-discover'd revels keep- 
ing. 
But what, without the social thought of 

thee. 
Would be the wonders of the sky and sea ? 

TO 

There is no clue to the identity of the per- 
son addressed and no date is affixed. It was 
published in the 1817 volume, and there follows 
the one addressed to his brother George. 

Had I a man's fair form, then might my 
sighs 
Be echoed swiftly through that ivory 

shell 
Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so 
well 
Would passion arm me for the enterprise: 
But ah ! I am no knight whose foeman dies; 
No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell; 
I am no happy shepherd of the dell 
Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's 
eyes. 



SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION TO A POEM 



27 



Yet must I dote upon thee, — call thee 
sweet, 
Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses 
When steep'd in dew rich to intoxica- 
tion. 
Ah ! I will taste that dew, for me 't is meet, 
And when the moon her pallid face dis- 
closes, 
I '11 gather some by spells, and incan- 
tation. 



SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION 
TO A POEM 

This poem was published in the 1817 volume 
where it immediately precedes Calidore. Leigh 
Himt, when reviewing the volume on its ap- 
pearance, speaks of the two poems as connected, 
and in Tom Keats's copybook they are written 
continuously. The same copy contains a memo- 
randum ' marked by Leigh Hunt — 1816.' 

Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry ; 

For large white plumes are dancing in mine 

eye. 
Not like the formal crest of latter days: 
But bending in a thousand graceful ways; 
So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand, 
Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand. 
Could charm them iuto such an attitude. 
We must think rather, that in playful mood, 
Some mountain breeze had turned its chief 

delight, 
To show this wonder of its gentle might. 10 
Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry; 
For while I muse, the lance points slant- 
ingly 
Athwart the morning air; some lady sweet. 
Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet. 
From the worn top of some old battlement 
Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent: 
And from her own pure self no joy dissem- 
bling, 
Wraps round her ample robe with happy 

trembling. 
Sometimes, when the good Knight his rest 

would take, 
It is reflected, clearly, in a lake, 20 



With the young ashen boughs, 'gainst 

which it rests, 
And th' half -seen mossiness of linnets' 

nests. 
Ah ! shall I ever tell its cruelty, 
When the fire flashes from a warrior's eye, 
And his tremendous hand is grasping it, 
And his dark brow for very wrath is knit ? 
Or when his spirit, with more calm intent. 
Leaps to the honours of a tournament. 
And makes the gazers round about the 

ring 
Stare at the grandeur of the balancing ? 30 
No, no ! this is far off: — then how shall I 
Revive the dying tones of minstrelsy. 
Which linger yet about long gothic arches. 
In dark green ivy, and among wild larches? 
How sing the splendour of the revelries, 
When butts of wine are drunk off to the 

lees? 
And that bright lance, against the fretted 

wall. 
Beneath the shade of stately banneral. 
Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and 

shield ? 
Where ye may see a spur in bloody field. 40 
Light-footed damsels move with gentle 

paces 
Round the wide hall, and show their happy 

faces; 
Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens: 
Like those fair stars that twinkle in the 

heavens. 
Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry: 
Or wherefore comes that knight so proudly 

by? 
Whei'efore more proudly does the gentle 

knight. 
Rein in the swelling of his ample might ? 

Spenser ! thy brows are archfed, open, kind, 
And come like a clear sunrise to my 

mind; 50 

And always does my heart with pleasure 

dance, 
When I think on thy noble countenance: 
Where never yet was ought more earthly 

seen 



28 



EARLY POEMS 



Than the pure freshness of thy laurels 

green. 
Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully 
Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh 
My daring steps : or if thy tender care, 
Thus startled unaware, 
Be jealous that the foot of other wight 
Should madly follow that bright path of 

light 60 

Trac'd by thy lov'd Libertas; he will 

speak, 
And tell thee that my prayer is very meek; 
That I will follow with due reverence, 
And start with awe at mine own strange 

pretence. 
Him thou wilt hear; so I will rest in hope 
To see wide plains, fair trees, and lawny 

slope: 
The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the 

flowers ; 
Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlook- 
ing towers. 

CALIDORE 

A FRAGMENT 

Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake ; 
His healthful spirit eager and awake 
To feel the beauty of a silent eve, 
Which seem'd full loth this happy world to 

leave ; 
The light dwelt o'er the scene so linger- 

ingly. 
He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky, 
And smiles at the far clearness all around. 
Until his heart is well nigh over wound. 
And turns for calmness to the pleasant 

green 
Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that 

lean 10 

So elegantly o'er the waters' brim 
And show their blossoms trim. 
Scarce can his clear and nimble eyesight 

follow 
The freaks and dartings of the black-wing'd 

swallow. 
Delighting much, to see it half at rest, 



Dip so refreshingly its wings, and breast 
'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark 

anon. 
The widening circles into nothing gone. 

And now the sharp keel of his little boat 
Comes up with ripple, and with easy 
float, 20 

And glides into a bed of water-lilies: 
Broad-leav'd are they, and their white can- 
opies 
Are upward turn'd to catch the heavens' 

dew. 
Near to a little island's point they grew; 
Whence Calidore might have the goodliest 

view 
Of this sweet spot of earth. The bowery 

shore 
Went off in gentle windings to the hoar 
And light blue mountains : but no breath- 
ing man 
With a warm heart, and eye prepared to scan 
Nature's clear beauty, could pass lightly 
by 30 

Objects that look'd out so invitingly 
On either side. These, gentle Calidore 
Greeted, as he had known them long before. 

The sidelong view of swelling leafiness. 
Which the glad setting sun in gold doth 

dress; 
Whence, ever and anon, the jay outsprings, 
And scales upon the beauty of its wings. 

The lonely turret, shatter'd, and outworn, 

Stands venerably proud; too proud to 

mourn 

Its long lost grandeur : fir-trees grow 

around, 40 

Aye dropping their hard fruit upon the 

ground. 

The little chapel, with the cross above, 
Upholding wreaths of ivy; the white dove, 
That on the windows spreads his feathers 

light, 
And seems from purple clouds to wing its 

flight. 



CALIDORE 



29 



Green tufted islands casting their soft 

shades 
Across the lake; sequester'd leafy glades, 
That through the dimness of their twilight 

show 
Large dock-leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the 

glow 
Of the wild cat's-eyes, or the silvery stems 
Of delicate birch-trees, or long grass which 

hems • 51 

A. little brook. The youth had long been 

viewing 
These pleasant things, and heaven was 

bedewing 
The mountain flowers, when his glad senses 

caught 
A. trumpet's silver voice. Ah ! it was 

fraught 
With many joys for him : the warder's ken 
Had found white coursers prancing in the 

glen : 
Friends very dear to him he soon will see; 
So pushes off his boat most eagerly, 
And soon upon the lake he skims along, 60 
Deaf to the nightingale's first under-song; 
Nor minds he the white swans that dream 

so sweetly: 
His spirit flies before him so completely. 

And now he turns a jutting point of land, 
W^hence may be seen the castle gloomy, and 

grand : 
Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling 

peaches, 
Before the point of his light shallop reaches 
Those marble steps that through the water 

dip: 
Now over them he goes with hasty trip, 
And scarcely stays to ope the folding 

doors: 70 

Anon he leaps along the oaken floors 
3i halls and corridors. 

Delicious sounds ! those little bright-eyed 

things 
That float about the air on azure wings. 
Had been less heartfelt by him than the 

clang 



Of clattering hoofs; into the court he 

sprang. 
Just as two noble steeds, and palfreys twain. 
Were slanting out their necks with loosen'd 

rein; 
While from beneath the threat'ning port- 
cullis 
They brought their happy burthens. What 

a kiss, So 

What gentle squeeze he gave each lady's 

hand ! 
How tremblingly their delicate ankles 

spann'd ! 
Into how sweet a trance his soul was gone, 
While whisperings of affection 
Made him delay to let their tender feet 
Come to the earth; with an incline so sweet 
From their low palfreys o'er his neck they 

bent: 
And whether there were tears of languish- 

ment, 
Or that the evening dew had pearl'd their 

tresses, 
He feels a moisture on his cheek, and 

blesses go 

With lips that tremble, and with glistening 

eye, 
All the soft luxury 

That nestled in his arms. A dimpled hand, 
Fair as some wonder out of fairy land. 
Hung from his shoulder like the drooping 

flowers 
Of whitest Cassia, fresh from summer 

showers : 
And this he fondled with his happy cheek, 
As if for joy he would no further seek; 
When the kind voice of good Sir Clerimond 
Came to his ear, like something from be- 
yond 100 
His present being: so he gently drew 
His warm arms, thrilling now with pulses 

new. 
From their sweet thrall, and forward gently 

bending, 
Thank'd Heaven that his joy was never 

ending; 
While 'gainst his forehead he devoutly 

press'd 



3° 



EARLY POEMS 



A hand Heaven made to succour the dis- 
tress'd ; 

A hand that from the world's bleak promon- 
tory 

Had lifted Calidore for deeds of glory. 

Amid the pages, and the torches' glare, 
There stood a knight, patting the flowing 

hair i lo 

Of his proud horse's mane: he was withal 
A man of elegance, and stature tall: 
So that the waving of his plumes would be 
High as the berries of a wild ash-tree. 
Or as the winged cap of Mercury. 
His armour was so dexterously wrought 
In shape, that sure no living man had 

thought 
It hard, and heavy steel: but that indeed 
It was some glorious form, some splendid 

weed. 
In which a spirit new come from the 

skies I20 

Might live, and show itself to human eyes. 
'Tis the far-fam'd, the brave Sir Gondi- 

bert, 
Said the good man to Calidore alert; 
While the young warrior with a step of 

grace 
Came up, — a courtly smile upon his face, 
And mailed hand held out, ready to greet 
The large-eyed wonder, and ambitious heat 
Of the aspiring boy; who as he led 
Those smiling ladies, often turned his head 
To admire the visor arched so gracefully 130 
Over a knightly brow; while they went by 
The lamps that from the high-roof'd hall 

were pendent, 
And gave the steel a shining quite tran- 
scendent. 

Soon in a pleasant chamber they are 

seated ; 
The sweet-lipp'd ladies have already 

greeted 
All the green leaves that round the window 

clamber. 
To show their purple stars, and bells of 

amber. 



Sir Gondibert has doff'd his shining steel. 
Gladdening in the free, and airy feel 
Of a light mantle; and while Clerimond 140 
Is looking round about him with a fond 
And placid eye, young Calidore is burning 
To hear of knightly deeds, and gallant 

spurning 
Of all unworthiness ; and how the strong of 

arm 
Kept off dismay, and terror, and alarm 
From lovely woman : while brimful of this. 
He gave each damsel's hand so warm a kiss. 
And had such manly ardour in his eye. 
That each at other look'd half-staringly; 
And then their features started into 

smiles, 150 

Sweet as blue heavens o'er enchanted isles. 

Softly the breezes from the forest came, 

Softly they blew aside the taper's flame; 

Clear was the song from Philomel's far 
bower; 

Grateful the incense from the lime-tree 
flower; 

Mysterious, wild, the far heard trumpet's 
tone ; 

Lovely the moon in ether, all alone: 

Sweet too the converse of these happy mor- 
tals, 

As that of busy spirits when the portals 

Are closing in the west; or that soft hum- 
ming 160 

We hear around when Hesperus is coming. 

Sweet be their sleep. . . . 



EPISTLE TO CHARLES 
COWDEN CLARKE 

This epistle printed in the 1817 volume is 
there dated September, 1816, when Clarke was 
in his twenty-ninth year. He was by eight 
years Keats's senior, and he lived till his nineti- 
eth year. 

Oft have you seen a swan superbly frown- 

And with proud breast his own white 
shadow crowni ig; 



EPISTLE TO CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE 



31 



He slants his neck beneath the waters 

bright 
So silently, it seems a beam of light 
Come from the galaxy: anon he sports, — 
With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr 

courts. 
Or ruffles all the surface of the lake 
In striving from its crystal face to take 
Some diamond water-drops, and them to 

treasure 
In milky nest, and sip them off at lei- 
sure. 10 
But not a moment can he there insure them, 
Nor to such downy rest can he allure them ; 
For down they rush as though they would 

be free. 
And drop like hours into eternity. 
Just like that bird am I in loss of time, 
Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme; 
With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvas 

rent, 
I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent; 
Still scooping up the water with my fingers, 
In which a trembling diamond never 

lingers. 20 

By this, friend Charles, you may full 

plainly see 
Why I have never penn'd a line to thee : 
Because my thoughts were never free, and 

clear, 
And little fit to please a classic ear; 
Because my wine was of too poor a savour 
For one whose palate gladdens in the fla- 
vour 
Of sparkling Helicon: — small good it were 
To take him to a desert rude, and bare, 
Who had on Baise's shore reclin'd at ease. 
While Tasso's page was floating in a 

breeze 30 

That gave soft music from Armida's 

bowers. 
Mingled with fragrance from her rarest 

flowers : 
Small good to one who had by Mulla's 

stream 
Fondled the maidens with the breasts of 



Who had beheld Belphcebe in a brook, 
And lovely Una in a leafy nook, 
And Archimago leaning o'er his book: 
Who had of all that 's sweet tasted, and 

seen, 
From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen; 
From the sequester'd haunts of gay Tita- 

nia, 40 

To the blue dwelling of divine Urania: 
One, who of late had ta'en sweet forest 

walks 
With him who elegantly chats and talks — 
The wrong'd Libertas, — who has told you 

stories 
Of laurel chaplets, and Apollo's glories; 
Of troops chivalrous prancing through a 

city. 
And tearful ladies made for love, and pity: 
With many else which I have never known. 
Thus have I thought; and days on days 

have flown 
Slowly, or rapidly — unwilling still 50 

For you to try my dull, unlearned quill. 
Nor should I now, but that I 've known you 

long; 
That you first taught me all the sweets of 

song: 
The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, 

the fine: 
What swell'd with pathos, and what right 

divine: 
Spenserian vowels that elope with ease. 
And float along like birds o'er summer 

seas: 
Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian ten- 
derness: 
Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair 

slenderness. 
Who read for me the sonnet swelling 

loudly 60 

Up to its climax, and then dying proudly ? 
Who found for me the grandeur of the 

ode, 
Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load ? 
Who let me taste that more than cordial 

dram. 
The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram ? 
Show'd me that epic was of all the king. 



32 



EARLY POEMS 



Round, vast, and spanning all, like Saturn's 
ring? 

You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty. 

And pointed out the patriot's stern duty; 

The might of Alfred, and the shaft of 
Tell; 70 

The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell 

Upon a tyrant's head. Ah! had I never 
seen, 

Or known your kindness, what might I 
have been ? 

What my enjoyments in my youthful years, 

Bereft of all that now my life endears ? 

And can I e'er these benefits forget ? 

And can I e'er repay the friendly debt ? 

No, doubly no; — yet should these rhym- 
ings please, 

I shall roll on the grass with twofold ease; 

For I have long time been my fancy feed- 
ing 80 

With hopes that you would one day think 
the reading 

Of my rough verses not an hour misspent; 

Should it e'er be so, what a rich content ! 

Some weeks have pass'd since last I saw 
the spires 

In lucent Thames reflected:^ — warm de- 
sires 

To see the sun o'er-peep the eastern dim- 
ness 

And morning shadows streaking into slim- 
ness. 

Across the lawny fields, and pebbly water; 

To mark the time as they grow broad, and 
shorter; 

To feel the air that plays about the hills, 90 

And sips its freshness from the little rills; 

To see high, golden corn wave in the light 

When Cynthia smiles upon a summer's 
night, 

And peers among the cloudlet's jet and 
white, 

As though she were reclining in a bed 

Of bean blossoms, in heaven freshly shed. 

No sooner had I stepp'd into these plea- 
sures, 

Than I began to think of rhymes and mea- 
sures; 



The air that floated by me seem'd to say 
' Write ! thou wilt never have a better 

day.' 100 

And so I did. W^hen many lines I 'd 

written. 
Though with their grace I was not over- 
smitten. 
Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought 1 'd 

better 
Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter. 
Such an attempt required an inspiration 
Of a peculiar sort, — a consummation; — 
Which, had I felt, these scribblings might 

have been 
Verses from which the soul would never 

wean ; 
But many days have past since last my 

heart 109 

Was warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart; 
By Arne delighted, or by Handel mad- 

den'd; 
Or by the song of Erin pierc'd and sad- 

den'd: 
What time you were before the music 

sitting, 
And the rich notes to each sensation fitting. 
Since I have walk'd with you through shady 

lanes 
That freshly terminate in open plains. 
And revell'd in a chat that ceased not 
When at night-fall among your books we 

got: 
No, nor when supper came, nor after that, — 
Nor when reluctantly I took my hat; 120 
No, nor till cordially you shook my hand 
Mid-way between our homes : — your ac- 
cents bland 
Still sounded in my ears, when I no more 
Could hear your footsteps touch the grav'ly 

floor. , 

Sometimes I lost them, and then found 

again ; 
You changed the foot-path for the grassy 

plain. 
In those still moments I have wish'd you 

joys 
That well you know to honour: — ' Life's 

very toys 



• ADDRESSED TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 



33 



iiVith him,' said I, ' will take a pleasant 

charm ; 
[t cannot be that ought will work him 

harm.' 130 

rhese thoughts now come o'er me with all 
* their might: — 

^gain I shake your hand, — friend Charles, 

good night. 

TO MY BROTHERS 

Though the poem is thus headed in the 1817 
'olume, where it is dated November IS, 1816, 
t might as properly have the heading given it 
n Tom Keats's copybook : ' Written to his 
Brother Tom on his Birthday,' with the same 
late. 

Jmall, busy flames play through the fresh- 
laid coals. 
And their faint cracklings o'er our si- 
lence creep 
Like whispers of the household gods that 
keep 
5l gentle empire o'er fraternal souls, 
^nd while, for rhymes, I search around the 
poles, 
Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep. 
Upon the lore so voluble and deep, 
rhat aye at fall of night our care condoles. 
Chis is your birth-day, Tom, and I rejoice 

That thus it passes smoothly, quietly: 
^any such eves of gently whisp'ring noise 

May we together pass, and calmly try 
iVhat are this world's true joys, — ere the 
great Yoice, 
From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly. 



ADDRESSED TO BENJAMIN 
ROBERT HAYDON 

The first of these two sonnets was sent by 
Seats with this brief note : ' November 20, 
.816. My dear Sir — Last evening wrought 
ne up, and I cannot forbear sending you the 
bllowing.' In his prompt acknowledgment 
3aydon suggested the omission of the last four 
vords in the penultimate line, and proposed 
lending the sonnet to Wordsworth. Keats re- 



plied on the same day as his first note : ' Your 
letter has filled me with a proud pleasure, and 
shall be kept by me as a stimulus to exertion — 
I begin to fix my eye upon one horizon. My 
feelings entirely fall in with yours in regard to 
the Ellipsis, and I glory in it. The Idea of 
your sending it to Wordsworth put me out of 
breath. You know with what Reverence I 
woidd send my Well-wishes to him.' The pre- 
sentation copy of the 1817 volume bears the 
inscription ' To W. Wordsworth with the Au- 
thor's sincere Reverence.' Both sonnets were 
printed, but in the reverse order in the 1817 
volume, and the ellipsis was preserved. 



Great spirits now on earth are sojourning ; 
He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake. 
Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake. 
Catches his freshness from Archangel's 

wing: 
He of the rose, the violet, the spring, 
The social smile, the chain for Freedom's 

sake: 
And lo ! — whose steadfastness would 
never take 
A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering. 
And other spirits there are standing apart 
Upon the forehead of the age to come; 
These, these will give the world another 
heart, 
And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum 
Of mighty workings in the human mart ? 
Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb. 



HiGHMiNDEDNESS, a jealousy for good, 
A loving-kindness for the great man's 

fame, 
Dwells here and there with people of no 
name. 
In noisome alley, and in pathless wood: 
And where we think the truth least under- 
stood, 
Oft may be found a ' singleness of aim,' 
That ought to frighten into hooded shame 
A money-mong'ring, pitiable brood. 
How glorious this affection for the cause 
Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly ! 



34 



EARLY POEMS 



What when a stout unbending champion 
awes 
Envy, and Malice to their native sty ? 
Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still ap- 
plause, 
Proud to behold him in his country's eye. 

TO KOSCIUSKO 

First published in The Examiner, where it 
is dated ' Dec, 1816.' It is included in the 
1817 volume. 

Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone 
Is a full harvest whence to reap high 

feeling; 

It comes upon us like the glorious pealing 

Of the wide spheres — an everlasting tone. 

And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown. 

The names of heroes, burst from clouds 

concealing. 
Are changed to harmonies, for ever 
stealing 
Through cloudless blue, and round each 

silver throne. 
It tells me too, that on a happy day, 

When some good spirit walks upon the 
earth. 
Thy name with Alfred's, and the great 
of yore. 
Gently commingling, gives tremendous 
birth 
To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away 
To where the great God lives for ever- 
more. 

TO G. A. W. 

Georgiana Augusta Wylie, who afterward 
married George Keats. For other verses ad- 
dressed to this lady see pp. 11, 240, 243. 

This sonnet in Tom Keats's copybook is 
dated December, 1816 ; it was published in the 
1817 volume. 

Nymph of the downward smile and side- 
long glance. 
In what diviner moments of the day 
Art thou most lovely ? When gone far 
astray 



Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance ? 
Or when serenely wand'ring in a trance 
Of sober thought ? Or when starting 

away. 
With careless robe, to meet the mornii^ 
ray. 
Thou spar'st the flowers in thy mazy dance ? 
Haply 't is when thy ruby lips part sweetly. 

And so remain, because thou listenest: 
But thou to please wert nurtured so com- 
pletely 
That I can never tell what mood is best. 
I shall as soon pronounce which Grace more 
neatly 
Trips it before Apollo than the rest. 



STANZAS 

There is no date given to this poem by Lord 
Houghton, who published it in the 1848 edi- 
tion, and no reference occurs to it in the Letters. 
It was probably an early careless poem, very 
likely a set of album verses. 

In a drear-nighted December, 

Too happy, happy tree. 
Thy branches ne'er remember 
Their green felicity: 
The north cannot undo them, 
With a sleety whistle through them; 
Nor frozen thawings glue them 
From budding at the prime. 

In a drear-nighted December, 
Too happy, happy brook. 
Thy bubblings ne'er remember 
Apollo's summer look; 
But with a sweet forgetting. 
They stay their crystal fretting. 
Never, never petting 

About the frozen time. 

Ah ! would 't were so with many 

A gentle girl and boy ! 
But were tliere ever any 

Writh'd not at passed joy ? 
To know the change and feel it, 
When there is none to heal it, 



ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET 



35 



Nor numbed sense to steal it, 
Was never said in rhyme. 



WRITTEN IN DISGUST OF 
VULGAR SUPERSTITION 

In Tom Keats's copybook this sonnet is 
dated ' Sunday evening, Dee. 24, 1816.' Lord 
Houghton gives it in the Aldine edition, and 
heads it ' Written on a Summer Evening.' Pos- 
sibly the seventh line may be adduced as evi- 
dence of the wintry season. 

The church bells toll a melancholy round, 

Calling the people to some other prayers, 

Some other gloominess, more dreadful 

cares. 

More hearkening to the sermon's horrid 

sound. 
Surely the mind of man is closely bound 
In some black spell; seeing that each one 

tears 
Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian 
airs. 
And converse high of those with glory 

crown'd. 
Still, still they toll, and I should feel a 
damp, — 
A chill as from a tomb, did I not know 
That they are dying like an outburnt lamp; 
That 't is their sighing, wailing ere they 

go 
Into oblivion; — that fresh flowers will 
grow. 
And many glories of immortal stamp. 



SONNET 

Published in the 1817 volume, hut there is 
no evidence as to its exact date. It is the 
latest in order of the sonnets, immediately pre- 
ceding Sleep and Poetry. 

Happy is England! I could be content 
To see no other verdure than its own; 
To feel no other breezes than are blown 

Through its tall woods with high romances 
blent : 



Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment 
For skies Italian, and an inward groan 
To sit upon an Alp as on a throne. 
And half forget what world or worldling 

meant. 
Happy is England, sweet her artless daugh- 
ters ; 
Enough their simple loveliness for me, 
Enough their whitest arms in silence 
clinging: 
Yet do I often warmly burn to see 
Beauties of deeper glance, and hear 
their singing. 
And float with them about the summer 
waters. 



ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND 
CRICKET 

Written December 30, 1816, on a challenge 
from Leigh Hunt, who printed both his and 
Keats's sonnets in his paper. The Examiner. 
Keats included the sonnet in his 1817 volume. 
Leigh Hunt's sonnet will be found in the 
Notes and Illustrations. 

The poetry of earth is never dead : 

When all the birds are faint with the 

hot sun. 
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown 

mead; 
That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the 
lead 
In summer luxury, — he has never done 
With his delights; for when tired out 
with fun, 
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant 

weed. 
The poetry of earth is ceasing never: 

On a lone winter evening, when the frost 
Has wrought a silence, from the stove 
there shrills 
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing 
ever, 
And seems to one, in drowsiness half lost, 
The Grasshopper's among some grassy 
hills. 



36 



EARLY POEMS 



SONNET 

Printed in The Examiner, February 23, 1817, 
and dated by Lord Houghton, when reprinting 
it, ' January, 1817.' 

After dark vapours have oppress'd our 
plains 
For a loug dreary season, comes a day 
Born of the gentle South, and clears 
away 
From the sick heavens all unseemly stains. 
The anxious month, relieved its pains, 
Takes as a long-lost right the feel of 

May; 
The eyelids with the passing coolness 
play, 
Like rose leaves with the drip of summer 

rains. 
And calmest thoughts come round us; as, 
of leaves 
Budding, — fruit ripening in stillness, — 
Autumn suns 
Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves, — 
Sweet Sappho's cheek, — a sleeping infant's 
breath, — 
The gradual sand that through an hour- 
glass runs, — 
A woodland rivulet, — a Poet's death. 



WRITTEN ON THE BLANK 
SPACE AT THE END OF 
CHAUCER'S TALE OF 'THE 
FLOURE AND THE LEFE' 

Written in February, 1817, and published ui 
The Examiner, March 16, 1817. There is a 
pleasant story that Charles Cowden Clarke had 
fallen asleep over the book, and woke to find 
this epilogue. 

This pleasant tale is like a little copse : 
The honied lines so freshly interlace, 
To keep the reader in so sweet a place, 

So that he here and there full-hearted 
stops ; 

And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops 
Come cool and suddenly against his face. 



And, by the wandering melody, may trace 
Which way the tender-legged linnet hops. 
Oh! what a power has white simplicity ! 

What mighty power has this gentle story ! 

I, that do ever feel athirst for glory, 
Could at this moment be content to lie 

Meekly upon the grass, as those whose 
sobbings 

Were heard of none beside the mournful 
robins. 



ON SEEING THE ELGIN 
MARBLES 

This and the following sonnet were printed 
in The Examiner, March 9, 1817, and reprinted 
in Life, Letters and Literary Remains. 1 

My spirit is too weak — mortality 

Weighs heavily on me like unwilling 

sleep, 
And each imagin'd pinnacle and steep 
Of godlike hardship tells me I must die 
Like a sick Eagle looking at the sky. 
Yet 't is a gentle luxury to weep 
That I have not the cloudy winds to 
keep, 
Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye. 
Such dim-conceived glories of the brain 
Bring round the heart an indescribable 
feud ; 
So do these wonders a most dizzy pain, 
That mingles Grecian grandeur with the 
rude 
Wasting of old Time — with a billowy 
main — 
A sun — a shadow of a magnitude. 



TO HAYDON 
(with the preceding sonnet) 



/ 



Haydon ! forgive me that I cannot speal^ 
Definitively of these mighty things; 
Forgive me, that I have not Eagle' « 
wings — \ 

That what I want I know not where t 
seek: 



ON SE 



LINES 



37 



And think thaP^®^ "Pd not be over meek, 
In rolling out'uptt^ow'd thunderings, 
Even to the steep of Heliconian springs, 
Were I of ample strength for such a 

freak — 
Think too, that all those numbers should 
be thine; 
Whose else ? In this who touch thy 
vesture's hem ? 
For when men star'd at what was most 
divine 
With browless idiotism — o'erwise 
phlegm — 
Thou hadst beheld the Hesperean shine 
Of their star in the East, and gone to 
worship them. 



TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ. 

This stood as dedication to the 1817 volume, 
which was published in the month of March. 
Charles Cowden Clarke makes the statement : 
■ On the evening when the last proof sheet was 
brought from the printer, it was accompanied 
by the information that if a " dedication to the 
book was intended, it must be sent forthwith." 
Whereupon he withdrew to a side table, and in 
the buzz of a mixed conversation (for there 
were several friends in the room) he composed 
and brought to Charles Oilier, the publisher, 
the dedication sonnet to Leigh Hunt.' 

Glory and loveliness have pass'd away; 

For if we wander out in early morn. 

No wreathed incense do we see upborne 
Into the east, to meet the smiling day: 
No crowd of nymphs sof t-voic'd and young, 
and gay, 

In woven baskets bringing ears of corn, 

Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn 
The shrine of Flora in her early May. 
But there are left delights as high as these. 

And I shall ever bless my destiny, 
That in a time, when under pleasant trees 

Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free, 
A leafy luxury, seeing I could please 

With these poor offerings, a man like 
thee. 



ON THE SEA 

Sent in a letter to Reynolds, dated April 17, 
1817. ' From want of regular rest,' Keats 
says, ' I have been rather narvus, and the pas- 
sage in Leai " Do you not hear the sea ? " — 

has haunted me intensely.' He then copies the 
sonnet, which was published in The Champion, 
August 17 of the same year. The letter was 
written from Carisbrooke. He had been sent 
away from London by his brothers a month 
before, shortly after the appearance of his first 
volume of Poems, and his letters show the 
nervous, restless condition into which he had 
been driven by that venture. 

It keeps eternal whisperings around 

Desolate shores, and with its mighty 

swell 
Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the 
spell 
Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy 

sound. 
Often 't is in such gentle temper found, 
That scarcely will the very smallest shell 
Be mov'd for days from where it some- 
time fell. 
When last the winds of Heaven were 

unbound. 
O ye ! who have your eyeballs vex'd and 
tir'd, 
Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea; 
O ye ! whose ears are dinn'd with up- 
roar rude. 
Or fed too much with cloying melody, — 
Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, 
and brood 
Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired ! 



LINES 

First published, with the date 1817, in Life, 
Letters and Literary Remains. It is barely 
possible that this is the ' song ' to which Keats 
refers in a letter to Benjamin Bailey, dated 
November 22, 1817, when he says : ' I am cer- 
tain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart's 
affections, and the truth of Imagination. What 
the Imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth 



38 



EARLY POEMS 



— whether it existed before or not — for I 
have the same idea of all our passions as of 
Love : they are all, in their sublime, creative 
of essential Beauty. In a word, you may know 
my favourite speculation by my first Book, and 
the little Song I sent in my last, which is a 
representation from the fancy of the probable 
mode of operating in these matters.' 

Unfelt, unheard, unseen, 

I 've left my little queen, 
Her languid arms in silver slumber lying: 

Ah ! through their nestling touch. 

Who — who could tell how much 
There is for madness — cruel, or comply- 
ing? 

Those faery lids how sleek ! 

Those lips how moist ! — they speak. 
In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds: 

Into my fancy's ear 

Melting a burden dear, 
How 'Love doth know no fulness, and no 
bounds.' 

True ! — tender monitors I 

I bend unto your laws : 
This sweetest day for dalliance was born ! 

So, without more ado, 

I '11 feel my heaven anew. 
For all the blushing of the hasty morn. 



ON 

Published with the date 1817 by Lord 
Houghton in Life, Letters and Literary He- 
mains, but slightly varied in form when re- 
printed in the Aldine edition. 

Think not of it, sweet one, so; — 

Give it not a tear; 
Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go 

Any — any where. 

Do not look so sad, sweet one, — 

Sad and fadingly; 
Shed one drop, then it is gone. 

Oh ! 't was born to die ! 



Still so pale ? (w p-elo''^*" ,weep; 

Weep, I '11 cc Vj' t ' aC;" ..^s, 
For each will I ./ent a bliss 

For thee in after years. 

Brighter has it left thine eyes 

Than a sunny rill; 
And thy whispering melodies 

Are more tender still. 

Yet — as all things mourn awhile 

At fleeting blisses; 
E'en let us too; but be our dirge 

A dirge of kisses. 



ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER 

This sonnet was printed in 1829 in The Gem, 
a Literary Annual, edited by Thomas Hood. 
It is not dated, but may fairly be assigned to 
this time. 

Come hither, all sweet maidens soberly, 
Down-looking aye, and with a chasten'd 

light 
Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white, 
And meekly let your fair hands joined be. 
As if so gentle that ye could not see, 

Untoucli'd, a victim of your beauty bright, 
Sinking away to his young spirit's night, 
Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea: 
'T is young Leander toiling to his death ; 
Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary 
lips 
For Hero's cheek, and smiles against 
her smile. 
O horrid dream ! see how his body dips 
Dead-heavy ; arms and shoulders gleam 
awhile : 
He 's gone ; up bubbles all his amorous 
breath ! 

ON LEIGH HUNT'S POEM, 'THE 
STORY OF RIMINI' 

Dated 1817 in the Life, Letters and Literary 
Remains, and placed next after the preceding. 



ON SEEING A LOCK OF MILTON'S HAIR 



39 



W.^ .;o peer up at the morning sun, 

Wi^"\ ilf-shut eyes and comfortable 

Let hi°i, with this sweet tale, full often 
seek 
For meadows where the little rivers run; 
Who loves to linger with that brightest one 
Of Heaven — Hesperus — let him lowly 

speak 
These numbers to the night, and star- 
light meek, 
Or moon, if that her hunting be begun. 
He who knows these delights, and too is 
prone 
To moralize upon a smile or tear. 
Will find at once a region of his own, 

A bower for his spirit, and will steer 
To alleys, where the fir-tree drops its cone, 
Where robins hop, and fallen leaves are 
sear. 



SONNET 

First published in Life, Letters and Literary 
Remains, but dated 1817 in a manuscript copy 
owned by Sir Charles DUke. Keats sends it 
as his ' last sonnet ' in a letter to Reynolds 
written on the last day of January, 1818. 

When I have fears that I may cease to 
be 
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming 
brain, 
Before high pil^d books, in charactry. 
Hold like rich garners the fuU-ripen'd 
grain; 
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd 
face. 
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, 
And think that I may never live to trace 
Their shadows, with the magic hand of 
chance ; 
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour ! 
That I shall never look upon thee more, 
Never have relish in the faery power 

Of unreflecting love ; — then on the shore 
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think 
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. 



ON SEEING A LOCK OF 
MILTON'S HAIR 

' I was at Hunt's the other day,' writes 
Keats to Bailey, January 23, 1818, ' and he 
surprised me with a real authenticated lock of 
Milton's Hair. I know you would like what I 
wrote thereon, so here it is — as they say of a 
sheqj in a Nursery Book.'' ' This I did, ' he 
adds, after copying the lines, ' at Hunt's at 
his request — perhaps I should have done 
something better alone and at home.' Lord 
Houghton printed the verse in Life, Letters 
and Literary Remains. 

Chief of organic numbers ! 

Old Scholar of the Spheres ! 
Thy spirit never slumbers. 
But rolls about our ears, 
For ever and for ever ! 
O what a mad endeavour 
Worketh he. 
Who to thy sacred and ennobled hearse 
Would offer a burnt sacrifice of verse 
And melody. 

How heavenward thou soundest, 

Live Temple of sweet noise. 
And Discord unconfoundest. 

Giving Delight new joys. 
And Pleasure nobler pinions ! 
O, where are thy dominions ? 
Lend thine ear 
To a young Delian oath, — ay, by thy soul. 
By all that from thy mortal lips did roll. 
And by the kernel of thine earthly love. 
Beauty, in things on earth, and things above, 
I swear ! 
When every childish fashion 

Has vanish' d from my rhyme. 
Will I, grey-gone in passion, 
Leave to an after-time. 
Hymning and harmony 
Of thee, and of thy works, and of thy 

life; 
But vain is now the burning and the strife. 
Pangs are in vain, until I grow high-rife 

With old Philosophy, 
And mad with glimpses of futurity ! 



4° 



EARLY POEMS 



For many years my offering must be husli'd ; 
When I do speak, I'll think upon this 
hour, 
Because I feel my forehead hot and flush' d. 
Even at the simplest vassal of thy 
power, — 
A lock of thy bright hair — 
Sudden it came, 
And I was startled, when I caught thy name 

Coupled so unaware; 
Yet, at the moment, temperate was my 

blood. 
I thouo-ht I had beheld it from the flood. 



ON SITTING DOWN TO READ 
'KING LEAR' ONCE AGAIN 

In a letter to his brothers, dated January 23, 
1818, Keats says : ' I tliink a little change has 
taken place in my intellect lately — I cannot 
bear to be uninterested or unemployed, I, who 
for so long a time have been addicted to pas- 
siveness. Nothing is finer for the purposes of 
great productions than a very gradual ripen- 
ing of the intellectual powers. As an instance 
of this — observe — I sat down yesterday to 
read King lisar once again : the thing ap- 
peared to demand the prologue of a sonnet, 
I wrote it, and began to read — (I know you 
would like to see it). So you see,' he goes on 
after copying the sonnet, ' I am getting at it 
with a sort of determination and strength, 
though verily I do not feel it at this moment.' 
The sonnet was printed in Life, Letters and 
Literary Remains. 

O GOLDKN-TONGUED Romance, with se- 
rene lute ! 
Fair plumfed Syren, Queen of far away ! 
Leave melodizing on this wintry day. 
Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute: 
Adieu ! for once again the fierce dispute. 
Betwixt damnation and impassion'd clay. 
Must I burn through; once more humbly 
assay 
The bitter sweet of this Shakespearean 

fruit: 
Chief Poet ! and ye clouds of Albion, 
Begetters of our deep eternal theme ! 



When through the old oak forest I am gone, 

Let me not wander in a barren dream, 
But when I am consumed in the Fire, 
Give me new Phceuix-wings to fly at my 
desire. 



LINES ON THE MERMAID 
TAVERN 

In sending his Robin Hood verses to Rey- 
nolds (see next poem), Keats added the follow- 
ing, but from the tenor of bis letter, it would 
apijear that they had been written earlier and 
were sent at Reynolds's request. The poem was 
published by Keats in his Lamia, Isabella, 
The Eve of St. Agnes, and other Poems, 1820. 
The friends were then in full tide of sympathy 
with the Elizabethans, and would have been 
very much at home with Shakespeare, Jonson, 
and Marlowe at the Mermaid. 

Souls of Poets dead and gone. 

What Elysium have ye known, 

Happy field or mossy cavern. 

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 

Have ye tippled drink more fine 

Than mine host's Canary wine ? 

Or are fruits of Paradise 

Sweeter than those dainty pies 

Of venison ? O generous food ! 

Drest as though bold Robin Hood lo 

Would, with his maid Marian, 

Sup and bowse from horn and can. 

I have heard that on a day 
Mine host's sign-board flew away, 
Nobody knew whither, till 
An astrologer's old quill 
To a sheepskin gave the story. 
Said he saw you in your glory, 
Underneath a new-old sign 
Sipping beverage divine, 20 

And pledging with contented smack 
The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 

Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern. 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 



TO THE NILE 



41 



ROBIN HOOD 



TO A FRIEND 



The friend was J. H. Reynolds, who had sent 
Keats two sonnets which he had written on 
Robin Hood. Keats's letter, dated February 
3, 1S18, is full of energetic pleasantry on the 
poetry which ' has a palpable design upon us,' 
and concludes : ' Let us have the old Poets 
and Robin Hood. Your letter and its sonnets 
gave me more pleasure than will the Fourth 
Book of Childe Harold, and the whole of any- 
body's life and opinions. In return for your 
Dish of Filberts, I have gathered a few Catkins. 
I hope they '11 look pretty.' Keats included 
the poem in his Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. 
Agnes and other Poems, 1820, with some trifling 
changes of text. 

No ! those days are gone away, 
And their hours are old and gray, 
And their minutes buried all 
Under the down-trodden pall 
Of the leaves of many years : 
Many times have Winter's shears, 
Frozen North, and chilling East, 
Sounded tempests to the feast 
Of the forest's whispering fleeces. 
Since men knew nor rent nor leases. 10 

No, the bugle sounds no more, 
And the twanging bow no more; 
Silent is the ivory shrill 
Past the heath and up the hill ; 
There is no mid-forest laugh. 
Where lone Echo gives the half 
To some wight, amaz'd to hear 
Jesting, deep in forest drear. 

On the fairest time of June 
You may go, with sun or moon, 20 

Or the seven stars to light you, 
Or the polar ray to right you; 
But you never may behold 
Little John, or Robin bold; 
Never one, of all the clan, 
Thrumming on an empty can 
Some old hunting ditty, while 
He doth his green way beguile 



To fair hostess Merriment, 
Down beside the pasture Trent; 3( 

For he left the merry tale. 
Messenger for spicy ale. 

Gone, the merry morris din ; 
Gone, the song of Gamelyn; 
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw 
Idling in the ' grene shawe ; ' 
All are gone away and past ! 
And if Robin should be cast 
Sudden from his turfed grave. 
And if Marian should have 4c 

Once again her forest days, 
She would weep, and he would craze: 
He would swear, for all his oaks, 
Fall'n beneath the dock-yard strokes. 
Have rotted on the briny seas ; 
She would weep that her wild bees 
Sang not to her — Strange ! that honey 
Can't be got without hard money ! 

So it is ; yet let us sing 
Honour to the old bow-string ! 5c 

Honour to the bugle horn ! 
Honour to the woods unshorn ! 
Honour to the Lincoln green ! 
Honour to the archer keen ! 
Honour to tight little John, 
And the horse he rode upon ! 
Honour to bold Robin Hood, 
Sleeping in the underwood ! 
Honour to Maid Marian, 
And to all the Sherwood clan ! 6c 

Though their days have hurried bj'. 
Let us two a burden try. 



TO THE NILE 

Composed February 4, 1818, in company with 
Shelley and Hunt, who each wrote a sonnet on 
the same theme. It was first published by 
Lord Houghton in the Life, Letters and Liter- 
ary Remains. 

Son of the old moon-mountains African ! 
Chief of the Pyramid and Crocodile ! 
We call thee fruitful, and that very while 



42 



EARLY POEMS 



A desert fills our seeing's inward span; 
Nurse of swart nations since the world 
began, 
Art thou so fruitful? or dost thou be- 
guile 
Such men to honour thee, who, worn with 
toil, 
Rest for a space 'twixt Cairo and De- 
can ? 
O may dark fancies err ! They surely 
do; 
'T is ignorance that makes a barren waste 
Of all beyond itself. Thou dost bedew 
Green rushes like our rivers, and dost 
taste 
The pleasant sun-rise. Green isles hast 
thou too. 
And to the sea as happily dost haste. 



TO SPENSER 

Printed in Life, Letters and Literary He- 
mains, and undated. Afterward, when Lord 
Houghton printed it in the Aldine edition of 
1876, he noted that he had seen a transcript 
given by Keats to Mrs. Longmore, a sister of 
Reynolds, dated by the recipient, February 5, 
1818. But Lord Houghton is confident that 
the sonnet was written much earlier. 

Spenser ! a jealous honourer of thine, 

A forester deep in thy midmost trees, 
Did last eve ask my promise to refine 
Some English that might strive thine ear 

to please. 
But Elfin Poet, 't is impossible 
Eor an inhabitant of wintry earth 

To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill 
Fire-wing'd and make a morning in his 
mirth. 
It is impossible to escape from toil 
O' the sudden and receive thy spiriting: 
The flower must drink the nature of the 
soil 
Before it can put forth its blossoming: 
Be with me in the summer days, and I 
Will for thine honour and his pleasure 
try. 



SONG 

WRITTEN ON A BLANK PAGE IN BEAU- 
MONT AND FLETCHER'S WORKS, BE- 
TWEEN 'CUPID's revenge' AND 
'THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN' 

First published in Life, Letters and Literary 
Remains, and undated. 

Spirit here that reignest ! 
Spirit here that painest ! 
Spirit here that burnest ! 
Spirit here that mournest ! 

Spirit, I bow 

My forehead low, 
Enshaded with thy pinions. 

Spirit, I look 

All passion-struck 
Into thy pale dominions. 

Spirit here that laughest ! 
Spirit here that quaffest ! 
Spirit here that dancest ! 
Noble soul that prancest ! 
Spirit, with thee 
I join in the glee 
A-nudging the elbow of Momus. 
Spirit, I flush 
With a Bacchanal blush 
Just fresh from the Banquet of 
Comus. 



FRAGMENT 

Under the flag 
Of each his faction, they to battle bring 
Their embryo atoms. 

MlLTOS. 

Published in Life, Letters and Literary He- 
mains, without date. 

Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow, 
Lethe's weed and Hermes' feather; 

Come to-day, and come to-morrow, 
I do love you both together ! 
I love to mark sad faces in fair weather; 

And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder; 



WRITTEN IN ANSWER TO A SONNET 



43 



Fair and foul I love together. 
Meadows sweet where flames are under, 
And a giggle at a wonder; 
Visage sage at pantomime; 
Funei'al, and steeple-chime; 
Infant playing with a skull; 
Morning fair, and shipwreck'd hull; 
Nightshade with the woodbine kissing; 
Serpents in red roses hissing; 
Cleopatra regal-dress'd 
With the aspic at her breast; 
Dancing music, music sad, 
Both together, sane and mad; 
Muses bright, and muses pale; 
Sombre Saturn, Momus hale; — 
Laugh and sigh, and laugh again; 
Oh, the sweetness of the pain ! 
Muses bright and muses pale. 
Bare your faces of the veil; 
Let me see; and let me write 
Of the day, and of the night — 
Both together : — let me slake 
All my thirst for sweet heart-ache ! 
Let my bower be of yew, 
Interwreath'd with myrtles new; 
Pines and lime-trees full in bloom, 
And my couch a low grass-tomb. 



WHAT THE THRUSH SAID 

In a long letter to Reynolds, dated February 
19, 1818, Keats writes earnestly of the sources 
of inspiration to a poet, and especially of the 
need of a receptive attitude : ' Let us open our 
leaves like a flower, and be passive and re- 
ceptive ; budding' patiently under the eye of 
Apollo and taking hints from every noble 
insect that favours us with a visit — Sap will 
be given us for meat, and dew for drink. I 
was led into these thoughts, my dear Reynolds, 
by the beauty of the morning operating on a 
sense of Idleness. I have not read any Book 
— the Morning said I was right — I had no 
idea but of the Morning, and the Thrush said 
I was right, seeming to say,' and then follows 
the poem. It was first printed in Life, Letters 
and Literary Hemains. 



O THOU whose face hath felt the Winter's 

wind, 
Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung 

in mist, 
And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing 

stars, 
To thee the spring will be a harvest-time. 
O thou, whose only book has been the light 
Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on 
Night after night when Phcebus was away, 
To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn. 
O fret not after knowledge — I have none, 
And yet my song comes native with the 

warmth. 
O fret not after knowledge — I have none. 
And yet the Evening listens. He who sad- 
dens 
At thought of idleness cannot be idle. 
And he 's awake who thinks himself asleep. 



WRITTEN IN ANSWER TO A 
SONNET ENDING THUS: — 

' Dark eyes are dearer far 
Than those that mock the hyacinthine bell ' 

By J. H. Reynolds. 

Dated by Lord Houghton ' February, 1818,' 
in Life, Letters and Literary Re?nains, where it 
was first printed. 

Blue ! 'T is the life of heaven, — the do- 
main 
Of Cynthia, — the wide palace of the 
sun, — 
The tent of Hesperus, and all his train, — 
The bosomer of clouds, gold, gray, and 
dun. 
Blue ! 'T is the life of waters — ocean 
And all its vassal streams, pools num- 
berless. 
May rage, and foam, and fret, but never can 

Subside, if not to dark blue nativeness. 
Blue ! Gentle cousin of the forest-green, 
Married to green in all the sweetest 
flowers, — 
Forget-me-not, — the blue bell, — and, that 
queen 



44 



EARLY POEMS 



Of secrecy, the violet: what strange 

powers 
Hast thou, as a mere shadow ! But how 

great. 
When in an Eye thou art, alive with fate ! 



TO JOHN HAMILTON 
REYNOLDS 

Undated, but placed by Lord Houghton di- 
rectly after the preceding in Life, Letters and 
Literary Remains. 

O THAT a week could be an age, and we 
Felt parting and warm meeting every 
week; 
Then one poor year a thousand years would 
be. 
The flush of welcome ever on the cheek: 
So could we live long life in little space, 

So time itself would be annihilate. 
So a day's journey in oblivious haze 

To serve our joys would lengthen and 
dilate. 
O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind ! 
To land each Tuesday from the rich Le- 
vant ! 
In little time a host of joys to bind, 

And keep our souls in one eternal pant ! 



This morn, my friend, and yester-evening 

taught 
Me how to harbor such a happy thought. 



THE HUMAN SEASONS 

This sonnet was sent by Keats in a letter to 
Benjamin Bailey, from Teignmouth, March 13, 
1818, and was printed the next year in Leigh 
Hunt's Literary Pocket-Book, but Keats did 
not include the verses in his 1820 volume. 

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; 

There are four seasons in the mind of 
man: 
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear 

Takes in all beauty with an easy span: 
He has his Summer, when luxuriously 

Spring's honied cud of youthful thought 
he loves 
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high 

Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves 
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings 

He furleth close; contented so to look 
On mists in idleness — to let fair things 

Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. 
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, 
Or else he would forego his mortal na- 
ture. 



I 



ENDYMION 



Keats began this poem in the spring of 
317 and finished it and saw it through the 
ress in just about a year. It is interesting 
» follow in his correspondence the growth 

* the poem. The subject in general had 
3en in his mind at least since the sum- 
ler of 1816, when he wrote / stood tiptoe 
ion a little hill, and the poem Sleep and 
oetry hints also at the occupation of his 
liud, though through all the earlier and 
irtly imitative period of his poetical growth 
3 was drawn almost equally by the ro- 
lance to which Spenser and Leigh Hunt in- 
oduced him, and the classic themes which 
!s early studies, Chapman and the Elgin 
larbles, all conspired to make real. In 
pril, 1817, he writes as one absorbed in 
le delights of poetry and stimulated by it 

• production. ' I find,' he writes to Eey- 
jlds from Carisbrooke, April 18, ' I can- 
it exist without Poetry — half the day 
ill not do — the whole of it — I began 
ith a little, but habit has made me a Le- 
iathan. I had become all in a Tremble 
'om not having written anything of late 
-the Sonnet overleaf \_0n the Sea] did 
le good. I slept the better last night for 

— this morning, however, I am nearly as 
ad again. Just now I opened Spenser, 
ad the first lines I saw were these — 

The noble heart that harbours virtuous 

thought, 
nd is with child of glorious great intent, 
an never rest until it forth have brought 
h' eternal brood of glory excellent." 

. . I shall forthwith begin my Endymion, 
hich I hope I shall have got some way 
ith by the time you come, when we will 
;ad our verses in a delightful place I have 
st my heart upon, near the Castle.' 
He reported progress to his friends from 
me to time during the summer: the poem 



was his great occupation, and he had the 
alternate exhilaration and depression which 
such an undertaking naturally would pro- 
duce in a temperament as sensitive as his; 
indeed, one is not surprised to find him 
near the end of September expressing him- 
self to Haydon as tired of the poem, and 
looking forward to a Romance to which he 
meant to devote himself the next summer, 
for so did his mind swing back and forth, 
though in truth romance was always upper- 
most, whether expressed in terms of Gre- 
cian mythology or medisevalism. But the 
main significance oi Endymion, as one traces 
the growth of Keats's mind, is in the strong 
impulse which possessed him to try his 
wings in a great flight. In a letter to Bai- 
ley, October 8, 1817, he quotes from his 
own letter to George Keats ' in the spring,' 
and thus at the very time of his setting 
forth on his great venture, the following 
notable passage : — 

' As to what you say about my being a 
Poet, I can return no answer but by saying 
that the high idea I have of poetical fame 
makes me think I see it towering too high 
above me. At any rate I have no right to 
talk until Endymion is finished — it will be 
a test, a trial of my Powers of Imagina- 
tion, and chiefly of my invention, which is 
a rare thing indeed — by which I must 
make 4000 lines of one bare circumstance, 
and fill them with Poetry : and when I con- 
sider that this is a great task, and that 
when done it will take me but a dozen 
paces towards the temple of fame — it 
makes me say: God forbid that I should 
be without such a task ! I have heard Hunt 
say, and I may be asked — " Why endeavour 
after a long Poem ? " To which I would 
answer. Do not the lovers of poetry like to 
have a little region to wander in, where 



45 



46 



ENDYMION 



tliey may pick and choose, and in which 
the images are so numerous that many are 
forgotten and found new in a second read- 
ing: which may be food for a week's stroll 
in summer ? Do not they like this better 
than what they can read through before 
Mrs. Williams comes down stairs ? a morn- 
ing work at most. 

' Besides, a long poem is a test of inven- 
tion, which I take to be the polar star of 
Poetry, as Fancy is the sails, and Imagina- 
tion the rudder. Did our great Poets ever 
write short Pieces ? I mean in the shape of 
Tales — this same invention seems indeed 
of late years to have been forgotten as a 
poetical excellence — But enough of this; 
I put on no laurels till I shall have finished 
Endymion.'' 

Keats was drawing near the end of his 
task when he wrote to Bailey November 
22: 'At present I am just arrived at Dork- 
ing — to change the scene, change the air 



and give me a spur to wind up my Poem, 
of which there are wanting 500 lines.' And 
at the end of the first draft is written ' Bar- 
ford Bridge [near Dorking] November 28, 
1817.' Early in January, 1818, Keats gave 
the first book to Taylor, who ' seemed,' 
he says, ' more than satisfied with it,' and 
to Keats's surprise proposed issuing it in 
quarto if Haydon would make a drawing 
for a frontispiece. Haydon, when asked, 
was more eager to paint a picture from 
some scene in the book, but proposed now 
to make a finished chalk sketch of Keats's 
head to be engraved for a frontispiece; 
for some unmentioned reason, this plan was 
not carried out. 

Keats was copying out the poem for the 
printer, giving it in book by book and read- 
ing the proofs until April, when it was 
ready save the Preface. This with dedica- 
tion and title-page he had sent to his Pub- 
lishers March 21. They were as follows: 



ENDYMION 

A ROMANCE 

By John Keats 

'The stretched metre of an antique song.' 

SJtakspeare's Sonnets. 

INSCRIBED, 

WITH EVERY FEELING OF PRIDE AND REGRET 

AND WITH 'A BOWED MIND' 

TO THE MEMORY OF 

THE MOST ENGLISH OF POETS EXCEPT SHAKSPEARE, 

THOMAS CHATTERTON 



PREFACE 

In a great nation, the work of an indi- 
vidual is of so little importance; his plead- 
ings and excuses are so uninteresting; his 
* way of life ' such a nothing, that a Preface 
seems a sort of impertinent bow to strangers 
who care nothing about it. 

A Preface, however, should be down in 
so many words; and such a one that by an 



eye-glance over the type the Reader may 
catch an idea of an Author's modesty, and 
non-opinion of himself — which I sincerely 
hope may be seen in the few lines I have 
to write, notwithstanding many proverbs of 
many ages old which men find a great plea- 
sure in receiving as gospel. 

About a twelvemonth since, I published 
a little book of verses ; it was read by some 
dozen of my friends who lik'd it; and some 



ENDYMION 



47 



dozen whom I was unacquainted with, who 
did not. 

Now, when a dozen human beings are at 
words with another dozen, it becomes a 
matter of anxiety to side with one's friends 
— more especially when excited thereto by 
a great love of Poetry. I fought under 
disadvantages. Before I began I had no 
inward feel of being able to finish; and as 
I proceeded my steps were all uncertain. 
So this Poem must rather be considered as 
an endeavour than as a thing accomplished ; 
a poor prologue to what, if I live, I humbly 
hope to do. In duty to the Public I should 
have kept it back for a year or two, know- 
ing it to be so faulty; but I really cannot 
do so, — by repetition my favourite pas- 
sages sound vapid in my ears, and I would 
rather redeem myself with a new Poem 
should this one be found of any interest. 

I have to apologize to the lovers of sim- 
plicity for touching the spell of loneliness 
that hung about Endymion; if any of my 
lines plead for me with such people I shall 
be proud. 

It has been too much the fashion of late 
to consider men bigoted and addicted to 
every word that may chance to escape their 
lips; now I here declare that I have not 
any particular affection for any particular 
phrase, word, or letter in the whole affair. 
I have written to please myself, and in 
hopes to please others, and for a love of 
fame; if I neither please myself, nor 
others, nor get fame, of what consequence 
is Phraseology. 

I would fain escape the bickerings that 
all works not exactly in chime bring upon 
their begetters — but this is not fair to ex- 
pect, there must be conversation of some 
sort and to object shows a man's conse- 
quence. In ease of a London drizzle or a 
Scotch mist, the following quotation from 
Marston may perhaps 'stead me as an um- 
brella for an hour or so: ' let it be the cur- 
tesy of my peruser rather to pity my self- 
hindering labours than to malice me.' 

One word more — for we cannot help 



seeing our own affairs in every point of 
view — should any one call my dedication 
to Chatterton affected I answer as follow- 
eth: 'Were I dead, sir, I should like a 
book dedicated to me.' 
Teignmouth, 
March 19th, 1818. 

This Preface was shown either before or 
after it was in type to Reynolds and other 
friends, and Reynolds objected to it in 
terms which may be inferred from the fol- 
lowing letter which Keats wrote him April 
9, 1818, and which is so striking a reflection 
of his mind, when contemplating his finished 
work, that it should be read in connection 
with the poem : — 

* Since you all agree that the thing is 
bad, it must be so — though I am not aware 
there is anything like Hunt in it (and if 
there is, it is my natural way, and I have 
something in common with Hunt). Look 
it over again, and examine into the motives, 
the seeds, from which any one sentence 
sprung — I have not the slightest feel of 
humility toward the public — or to anything 
in existence, — but the eternal Being, the 
Principle of Beauty, and the Memory of 
Great Men. When I am writing for my- 
self for the mere sake of the moment's 
enjoyment, perhaps nature has its course 
with me — but a Preface is written to the 
Public ; a thing I cannot help looking upon 
as an Enemy, and which I cannot address 
without feelings of Hostility. If I write a 
Preface in a supple or subdued style, it will 
not be in character with me as a public 
speaker — I would be subdued before my 
friends, and thank them for subduing me — 
but among Multitudes of Men — I have no 
feel of stooping; I hate the idea of hu- 
mility to them. 

' I never wrote one single line of Poetry 
with the least Shadow of public thought. 

' Forgive me for vexing you and making 
a Trojan horse of such a Trifle, both with 
respect to the matter in question, and my- 
self — but it eases me to tell you — I could 



48 



ENDYMION 



not live without the love of iny friends — I 
would jump down ^tna for any great Pub- 
lic good — but I hate a mawkish Popularity. 
I cannot be subdued before them; my Glory 
would be to daunt and dazzle the thousand 
jabberers about pictures and books. I see 
swarms of Porcupines with their quills 
erect "like lime-twigs set to catch my 
winged book," and I would fright them away 
with a torch. You will say my Preface is 
not much of a Torch. It would have been 
too insulting " to begin from Jove," and I 
could not set a golden head upon a thing of 
clay. If there is any fault in the Preface 
it is not affectation, but an undersong of 
disrespect to the Public. If I write an- 
other Preface, it must be without a thought 
of those people — I will think about it. If it 
should not reach you in four or five days, tell 
Taylor to publish it without a Preface, and 
let the Dedication simply stand " Inscribed 
to the Memory of Thomas Chatterton." ' 
The next day he wrote to his friend, in- 
closing a new draft: ' I am anxious you 
should find this Preface tolerable. If there 
is an affectation in it 't is natural to me. 
Do let the Printer's Devil cook it, and let 
me be as " the casing air." You are too 
good in this matter — were I in your state, 
I am certain I should have no thought but 
of discontent and illness — I might though 
be taught Patience: I had an idea of giving 
no Preface; however, don't you think this 
had better go ? O, let it — one should not 
be too timid — of committing faults.' 

The Dedication stood as Keats proposed, 
and the new Preface, which is as follows : 

PREFACE 
Knowing within myself the manner i; 
which this Poem has been produced, it ii 
not without a feeling of regret that I make 
it public. 



What manner I mean, will be quite clear 
to the reader, who must soon perceive great 
inexperience, immaturity, and every error 
denoting a feverish attempt, rather than a 
deed accomplished. The two first books, 
and indeed the two last, I feel sensible are 
not of such completion as to warrant their 
passing the press; nor should they if I 
thought a year's castigation would do them 
any good; — it will not: the foundations are 
too sandy. It is just that this youngster 
should die away: a sad thought for me, if 
I had not some hope that while it is dwin- 
dling I may be plotting, and fitting myself 
for verses fit to live. 

This may be speaking too presumptu- 
ously, and may deserve a punishment: but 
no feeling man will be forward to inflict 
it: he will leave me alone, with the convic- 
tion that there is not a fiercer hell than 
the failure in a great object. This is not 
written with the least atom of purpose to 
forestall criticisms of course, but from the 
desire I have to conciliate men who are 
competent to look, and who do look with a 
zealous eye, to the honour of English lit- 
erature. 

The imagination of a boy is healthy, and 
the mature imagination of a man is healthy; 
but there is a space of life between, in which 
the soul is in a ferment, the character un- 
decided, the way of life uncertain, the 
ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds 
mawkishness, and all the thousand bitters 
which those men I speak of must necessarily 
taste in going over the following pages. 

I hope I have not in too late a day 
touched the beaijtif ul mythology of Greece, 
and dulled its brightness: for I wish to try 
once more, before I bid it farewel. 

Teignmouth, 
April 10, 1818. 




1 






BOOK FIRST 



49 



BOOK I 

A THING of beauty is a joy for ever: 
Its loveliness increases; it will never 
Pass into uothiuguess; but still will keep 
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet 

breathing. 
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreath- 
ing 
A flowery band to bind us to the earth. 
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth 
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days. 
Of all the unhealthy and o'er - darken'd 

ways lo 

Made for our searching : yes, in spite of 

all, 
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the 

moon. 
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady 

boon 
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils 
With the green world they live in ; and clear 

rills 
That for themselves a cooling covert make 
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake. 
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose 

blooms : 19 

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 
We have imagined for the mighty dead; 
All lovely tales that we have heard or read: 
An endless fountain of immortal drink. 
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 

Nor do we merely feel these essences 
For one short hour ; no, even as the trees 
That whisper round a temple become soon 
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, 
The passion poesy, glories infinite, 29 

Haunt us till they become a cheering light 
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, 
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'er- 

cast. 
They alway must be with us, or we die. 

Therefore 't is with full happiness that I 
Will trace the story of Endymion. 



The very music of the name has gone 
Into my being, and each pleasant scene 
Is growing fresh before me as the green 
Of our own valleys: so I will begin 
Now while I cannot hear the city's din; 40 
Now while the early budders are just new. 
And run in mazes of the youngest hue 
About old forests; while the willow trails 
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails 
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the 

year 
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I '11 smoothly 

steer 
My little boat, for many quiet hours, 
With streams that deepen freshly into bow- 
ers. 
Many and many a verse I hope to write, 
Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and 
white, 50 

Hide in deep herbage ; and ere yet the bees 
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas, 
I must be near the middle of my story. 
O may no wintry season, bare, and hoary. 
See it half-finish'd : but let Autumn bold, 
With universal tinge of sober gold, 
Be all about me when I make an end. 
And now at once, adventuresome, I send 
My herald thought into a wilderness: 
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly 
dress 60 

My uncertain path with green, that I may 

speed 
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed. 

Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread 
A mighty forest; for the moist earth fed 
So plenteously all weed-hidden roots 
Into o'erhanging boughs, and precious 

fruits. 
And it had gloomy shades, sequestered 

deep. 
Where no man went ; and if from shepherd's 

keep 
A lamb stray'd far a-down those inmost 

glens. 
Never again saw he the happy pens 70 

Whither his brethren, bleating with con- 
tent. 



5° 



ENDYMION 



Over the hills at every nightfall went. 
Among the shepherds, 't was believed ever, 
That not one fleecy lamb which thns did 

sever 
From the white flock, but pass'd unworrifed 
By angry wolf, or pard with prying head, 
Until it came to some imfooted plains 
Where fed the herds of Pan: aye great his 

gains 
Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there 

were many, 
Winding through palmy fern, and rushes 

fenny, So 

And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly 
To a wide lawn, whence one could only see 
Stems thronging all around between the 

swell 
Of turf and slanting branches: who could 

tell 
The freshness of the space of heaven 

above, 
Edged round with dark tree-tops ? through 

which a dove 
Would often beat its wings, and often too 
A little cloud would move across the blue. 

Full in the middle of this pleasantness 
There stood a marble altar, with a tress 90 
Of flowers budded newly ; and the dew 
Had taken fairy phantasies to strew 
Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve. 
And so the dawned light in pomp receive. 
For 't was the morn: Apollo's upward fire 
Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre 
Of brightness so unsullied, that therein 
A melancholy spirit well might win 
Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine 
Into the winds: rain-scented eglantine 100 
Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing 

sun; 
The lark was lost in him; cold springs had 

run 
To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass ; 
Man's voice was on the mountains ; and the 

mass 
Of nature's lives and wonders pulsed ten- 
fold, 
To feel this sun-rise and its glories old. 



Now while the silent workings of the 

dawn 
Were busiest, into that self- same lawn 
All suddenly, with joyful cries, there sped 
A troop of little cliildren garlanded; no 
Who gathering round the altar seem'd to pry 
Earnestly round as wishing to espy 
Some folk of holiday: nor had they waited 
For many moments, ere their ears were 

sated 
With a faint breath of music, which ev'n 

then 
Fill'd out its voice, and died away again. 
Within a little space again it gave 
Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave, 
To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes 

breaking 
Through copse - clad valleys, — ere their 

death, o'ertaking 120 

The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea. 

And now, as deep into the wood as we 
Might mark a lynx's eye, there glimmer'd 

light 
Fair faces and a rush of garments white. 
Plainer and plainer showing, till at last 
Into the widest alley they all past, 
Making directly for the woodland altar. 
O kindly muse ! let not my weak tongue 

faulter 
In telling of this goodly company, 
Of their old (piety, and of their glee: 130 
But let a portion of ethereal dew 
Fall on my head, and presently unmew 
My soul; that I may daje, in wayfaring. 
To stammer where old Chaucer used to 

sing. 

Leading the way, young damsels danced 

along. 
Bearing the burden of a shepherd song; 
Each having a white wicker, overbrimm'd 
With April's tender younglings: next, well 

trimm'd, 
A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt 

looks 
As may be read of in Arcadian books ; 140 
Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe, 



ii 



When the great deity, for earth too ripe, 
Let his divinity o'erflowing die 
In music, through the vales of Thessaly: 
Some idly trail'd their sheep-hooks on the 

ground, 
And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound 
With ebon-tipped flutes: close after these, 
Now coming from beneath the forest trees, 
A venerable priest full soberly. 
Begirt with minist'ring looks: alway his 

eye 150 

Steadfast upon the matted turf he kept. 
And after him his sacred vestments swept. 
From his right hand there swung a vase, 

milk-white, 
Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous 

light; 
And in his left he held a basket full 
Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could 

cull: 
Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still 
Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill. 
His aged head, crowned with beechen 

wreath, 
Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teeth 160 
Of winter hoar. Then came another 

crowd 
Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud 
Their share of the ditty. After them ap- 

pear'd, 
Up-follow'd by a multitude that rear'd 
Their voices to the clouds, a fair-wrought 

car, , 
Easily rolling so as scarce to mar 
The freedom of three steeds of dapple 

brown: 
Who stood "therein did seem of great re- 

liown 
Among the throng. His youth was fully 

blown. 
Showing like Ganymede to manhood grown ; 
And, for those simple tim^ his garments 

were 171 

A chieftain kings ; beneath his breast, half 

bare, 
Was hung a silver bugle, and between 
His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear 

keen. 



A smile was on his countenauv-e ; he seem 
To common lookers-on, like one wl 

dream'd 
Of idleness in groves Elysian: 
But there were some who feelingly cou: 

scan 
A lurking trouble in his nether lip, 
And see that oftentimes the reins would si r 
Through his forgotten hands: then won 

they sigh. 
And think of yellow leaves, of owlets' cr , 
Of logs piled solemnly. — Ah, well-a-day 
Why should our young Endymion pi 

away ! 

Soon the assembly, in a circle ranged. 
Stood silent round the shrine: each lo - 

was changed 
To sudden veneration : women meek 
Beckon'd their sons to silence; while ea 

cheek 
Of virgin bloom paled gently for slight f e 
Endymion too, without a forest peer. 
Stood, wan, and pale, and with an aw 

face. 
Among his brothers of the mountain cha 
In midst of all, the venerable priest 
Eyed them with joy from greatest to 1 

least. 
And, after lifting up his aged hands. 
Thus spake he: ' Men of Latmos ! shephi ' 

bands ! 
Whose care it is to guard a thousand floe • 
Whether descended from beneath the ro 
That overtop your mountains ; whet ; 

come 
From valleys where the pipe is ne 

dumb ; 20. 

Or from your swelling downs, where sw <- 

air stirs 
Blue harebells lightly, and where pric 

furze 
Buds lavish gold; or ye, whose preci 

charge 
Nibble their fill at ocean's very marge. 
Whose mellow reeds are touch'd \ 

sounds forlorn 
By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn 



52 



ENDYMION 



Mothers and wives ! who day by day pre- 
pare 
The scrip, with needments, for the moun- 
tain air; 
And all ye gentle girls who foster up 
Udderless lambs, and in a little cup 210 
Will put choice honey for a f avour'd youth : 
Yea, every one attend ! for in good truth 
Our vows are wanting to our great god 

Pan. 
Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than 
Night-swollen mushrooms ? Are not our 

wide plains 
Speckled with countless fleeces ? Have 

not rains 
Green'd over April's lap ? No howling sad 
Sickens our fearful ewes; and we have hrtd 
Great bounty from Endymion our lord. 
The earth is glad: the merry lark has 
pour'd 220 

His early song against yon breezy sky, 
That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity.' 

Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a 

spire 
Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire ; 
Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sod 
With wine, in honour of the shepherd-god. 
Now while the earth was drinking it, and 

while 
Bay leaves were crackling in the fragrant 

pile, 
ind gummy frankincense was sparkling 

bright 
Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy 

light 230 

Spread grayly eastward, thus a chorus 

sang: 

' O thou, whose mighty palace roof doth 

hang 
From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth 
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, 

death 
Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness; 
Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress 
Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels 

darken; 



And through whole solemn hours dost sit, 

and hearken 
The dreary melody of bedded reeds — 
In desolate places, where dank moisture 

breeds 240 

The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth; 
Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth 
Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx — do thou 

now, 
By thy love's milky brow ! 
By all the trembling mazes that she ran, 
Hear us, great Pan ! 

' O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, 
turtles 
Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles, 
What time thou wanderest at eventide 
Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the 
side 250 

Of thine enmossed realms: O thou, to whom 
Broad-leaved fig-trees even now foredoom 
Their ripen'd fruitage; yellow-girted bees 
Their golden honeycombs; our village leas 
Their fairest blossom'd beans and poppied 

corn ; 
The chuckling linnet its five young unborn, 
To sing for thee; low-creeping strawberries 
Their summer coolness; pent-up butterflies 
Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh-bud- 
ding year 
All its completions — be quickly near, 260 
By every wind that nods the mountain pine, 
O forester divine ! 

' Thou, to whom every faun and satyr 

flies 
For willing service ; whether to surprise 
The squatted hare while in half-sleeping 

fit; 
Or upward ragged precipices flit 
To save poor lambkins from the eagle's 

maw; 
Or by mysteiious enticcmn t draw 
Bewilder'd shepherds to th ir path again; 
Or to tread breathless 1 md the frothy 

main, 270 

And gather up all fancifnUest shells 
For thee to tun:.ble ^l^^« \';, tads' cells. 



BOOK FIRST 



And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peep- 
ing; 

Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping. 

The while they pelt each other on the 
crown 

With silvery oak-apples, and fir-cones 
brown — 

By all the echoes that about thee ring. 

Hear us, O satyr king ! 

' O Hearkener to the loud - clapping 

shears, 
While ever and anon to his shorn peers 280 
A ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn. 
When snouted wild-boars routing tender 

corn 
Anger our huntsman: Breather round our 

farms. 
To keep off mildews, and all weather 

harms : 
Strange ministrant of vmdescribed sounds, 
That come a-swooning over hollow grounds, 
And wither drearily on barren moors: 
Dread opener of the mysterious doors 
Leading to universal knowledge — see, 
Great son of Dryope, 290 

The many that are come to pay their vows 
With leaves about their brows ! 

' Be still the unimaginable lodge 

For solitary thinkings; such as dodge 

Conception to the very bourne of heaven. 

Then leave the naked brain: be still the 
leaven, 

That spreading in this dull and clodded 
earth 

Gives it a touch ethereal — a new birth : 

Be still a symbol of immensity; 

A firmament reflected in a sea; 300 

An element filling the space between; 

An unknown — but no more: we humbly 
screen 

With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly 
bending. 

And giving out a shout most heaven-rend- 
ing. 

Conjure thee to receive our humble Psean, 

Upon thy Mount Lycean ! ' 



Even while they brought the burden to a 

close, 
A shout from the whole multitude aros .\ 
That linger'd in the air like dying rolls 
Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals , o 
Of dolphins bob their noses through he 

brine. 
Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine 
Young companies nimbly began danci • 
To the swift treble pipe, and hum >ing 

string. 
Aye, those fair living forms swam hear anly 
To tunes forgotten — out of memory: 
Fair creatures ! whose young childi en's 

children bred 
Thermopylae its heroes — not yet deadi 
But in old marbles ever beautiful. 
High genitors, unconscious did they cu .;, 
Time's sweet first-fruits — they danc .. <<> 

weariness. 
And then in quiet circles did they pre t 
The hillock turf, and caught the latt( end 
Of some strange histoi-y, potent to se 
A young mind from its bodily tenem i 
Or they might watch the quoit-pi hers, 

intent 
On either side ; pitying the sad deai . 
Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel bre? ^i 
Of Zephyr slew him, — Zephyr pej 1 : ■ 't. 
Who now, ere Phoebus mounts tt '•- 

ment, 
Fondles the flower amid the sobbr>L 'i in. 
The archers too, upon a wider pla 1. 
Beside the feathery whizzing of tl ; sLait» 
And the dull twanging bowstring and ti 

raft 
Branch down sweeping from a tall asli to 
Call'd up a thousand thoughts to < uvelop 
Those who would watch. Perha'js, tl 

trembling knee 
And frantic gape of lonely Niobe 
Poor, lonely Niobe ! when her loi ely j ou 
Were dead and gone, and hei" carets) 

tongue 
Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip, 
And very, very deadliness did nip 
Her motherly cheeks. Aroused from 

sad mood 



By one, who at a distance loud halloo'd, 
Uplifting his strong bow into the air, 
Many might after brighter visions stare: 
After the Argonauts, in blind amaze 
Tossing about on Neptune's restless ways. 
Until, from the horizon's vaulted side, 
There shot a golden splendour far and 
wide, ' 35° 

Spangling those million pou tings of the 

brine 
With quivering ore: 'twas even an awful 

thine 
From the exaltation of Apollo's bow; 
A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe. 
Who tli\is were ripe for high contemplating. 
Might turn their steps towards the sober 

r'ng 
"vl'bere sat Endymion and the aged priest 
1 on<i shepherds gone in eld, whose looks 

increased 
iie silvf ry setting of their mortal star. 
lere tiiey discoursed upon the fragile 
bar 360 

nat keeps us from our homes ethereal; 
;id what our duties there: to nightly call 
esjAT, the beauty-crest of summer wea- 
ther; 
o summon all the downiest clouds together 
^,-' o'he n's purple couch; to emulate 

dnist'ring the potent rule of fate 
,*\it] spe<;d of fire-tail'd exhalations; 
IvTo tint linr pallid cheek with bloom, who 
cons 
•weet poesy by moonlight: besides these, 
. world of other unguess'd offices. 370 

Anon they wander'd, by divine converse, 
Into Elysii^m; vying to rehearse 
Each one Ins own anticipated bliss, 
>ne felt hiBart-certain that he could not 

miss 
lis quick-gone love, among fair blossom'd 
boughs, 
Tiere eve, y zephyr-sigh pouts, and endows 
r lips with music for the welcoming, 
ftther wit ti'd, 'mid that eternal spring, 
\neet his rosy child, with feathery sails, 
leping, eye-earnestly, through almond 
vr. ! 3s : 380 



Who, suddenly, should stoop through the 

smooth wind, 
And with the balmiest leaves his temples 

bind; 
And, ever after, through those regions be 
His messenger, his little Mercury. 
Some were athirst in soul to see again 
Their fellow-huntsmen o'er the wide cham- 
paign 
In times long past; to sit with them, and 

talk 
Of all the chances in their earthly walk; 
Comparing, joyfully, their plenteous stores 
Of happiness, to when upon the moors, 390 
Benighted, close they huddled from the 

cold. 
And shared their famish'd scrips. Thus 

all out-told 
Their fond imaginations, — saving him 
Whose eyelids curtain'd up their jewels 

dim, 
Endymion: yet hourly had he striven 
To hide the cankering venom, that had 

riven 
His fainting recollections. Now indeed 
His senses had swoou'd off: he did not heed 
The sudden silence, or the whispers low. 
Or the old eyes dissolving at his woe, 400 
Or anxious calls, or close of trembling 

palms, 
Or maiden's sigh, that grief itself embalms: 
But in the self-same fixed trance he kept, 
Like one who on the earth had never stept. 
Aye, even as dead-still as a marble man. 
Frozen in that old tale Arabian. 

Who whispers him so pantingly and 
close ? 
Peona, his sweet sister: of all those. 
His friends, the dearest. Hushing signs 

she made, 
And breathed a sister's sorrow to per- 
suade 4IC 
A yielding up, a cradling on her care. 
Her eloquence did breathe away the curse: 
She led him, like some midnight spirit nurse 
Of happy changes in emphatic dreams. 
Along a path between two little streams, — 



BOOK FIRST 



55 



Guarding his forehead, with her round 

elbow, 
From low-grown branches, and his foot- 
steps slow 
From stumbling over stumps and hillocks 

small ; 
Until they came to where these streamlets 

fall, 
With mingled babblings and a gentle 
rush, 420 

Into a river, clear, brimful, and flush 
With crystal mocking of the trees and 

sky. 
A little shallop, floating there hard by. 
Pointed its beak over the fringed bank; 
And soon it lightly dipt, and rose, and sank. 
And dipt again, with the young couple's 

weight, — 
Peona guiding, through the water straight, 
Towards a bowery island opposite; 
Which gaining presently, she steered light 
Into a shady, fresh, and ripply cove, 430 
Where nested was an arbour, overwove 
By many a summer's silent fingering; 
To whose cool bosom she was used to bring 
Her playmates, with their needle broid- 
ery, 
And minstrel memories of times gone by. 

So she was gently glad to see him laid 
LFnder her favourite bower's quiet shade. 
On her own couch, new made of flower 

leaves. 
Dried carefully on the cooler side of sheaves 
When last the sun his autumn tresses 

shook, 440 

And the tann'd harvesters rich armfuls 

took. 
Soon was he quieted to slumbrous rest: 
But, ere it crept upon him, he had prest 
Peona's busy hand against his lips, 
A.nd still, a-sleeping, held her finger-tips 
[n tender pressure. And as a willow keeps 
A. patient watch over the stream that creeps 
Windingly by it, so the quiet maid 
Held her in peace: so that a whispering 

blade 
Of grass, a wailful gnat, a bee bustling 450 



Down in the bluebells, or a wren light 

rustling 
Among sere leaves and twigs, might all be 

heard. 

O magic sleep ! O comfortable bird, 
That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the 

mind 
Till it is hush'd and smooth ! O unconfined 
Restraint ! imprison'd liberty ! great key 
To golden palaces, strange minstrelsy. 
Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled 

caves. 
Echoing grottoes, full of tumbling waves 
And moonlight; aye, to all the mazy 

world 460 

Of silvery enchantment ! — who, upf ui4'd 
Beneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour. 
But renovates and lives? — Thus, in the 

bower, 
Endymion was calm'd to life again. 
Opening his eyelids with a healthier brain. 
He said: 'I feel this thine endearing love 
All through my bosom: thou art as a dove 
Trembling its closed eyes and sleeked 

wings 
About me; and the pearliest dew not brings 
Such morning incense from the fields of 

May, 470 

As do those brighter drops that twinkling- 
stray 
From those kind eyes, — the very home and 

haunt 
Of sisterly affection. Can I want 
Aught else, aught nearer heaven, than such 

tears ? 
Yet dry them up, in bidding hence all fears 
That, any longer, I will pass my days 
Alone and sad. No, I will once more raise 
My voice upon the mountain-heights; once 

more 
Make my horn parley from their foreheads 

hoar: 
Again my trooping hounds their tongues 

shall loH 480 

Around the breathed boar: again I'll poll 
The fair-grown yew-tree, for a chosen bow: 
And, when the pleasant sun is getting low, 



S6 



ENDYMION 



Again I '11 linger in a sloping mead 
To hear the speckled thrushes, and see feed 
Our idle sheep. So be thou cheered, sweet ! 
And, if thy lute is here, softly intreat 
My soul to keep in its resolved course.' 

Hereat Peona, in their silver source, 
Shut her pure sorrow-drops with glad ex- 
claim, 490 
And took a lute, from which there pulsing 

came 
A lively prelude, fashioning the way 
In which her voice should wander. 'T was 

a lay 
More subtle cadenced, more forest wild 
Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child; 
And nothing since has floated in the air 
So mournful strange. Surely some influ- 
ence rare 
Went, spiritual, through the damsel's hand ; 
For still, with Delphic emphasis, shespann'd 
The quick invisible strings, even though 
she saw 500 

Endymion's spirit melt away and thaw 
Before the deep intoxication. 
But soon she came, with sudden burst, upon 
Her self-possession — swung the lute aside, 
And earnestly said: 'Brother, 'tis vain to 

hide 
That thou dost know of things mysterious, 
Immortal, starry; such alone could thus 
Weigh down thy nature. Hast thoii sinn'd 

in aught 
Offensive to the heavenly powers ? Caught 
A Paphian dove upon a message sent ? 510 
Thy deathful bow against some deer-herd 

bent, 
Sacred to Dian ? Haply, thou hast seen 
Her naked limbs among the alders green; 
And that, alas ! is death. No, I can trace 
Something more high perplexing in thy 
face ! ' 

Endymion look'd at her, and press'd her 

hand, 
And said, * Art thou so pale, who wast so 

bland 
And merry in our meadows ? How is this ? 



Tell me thine ailment : tell me all amiss ! — 
Ah ! thou hast been unhappy at the change 
Wrought suddenly in me. What indeed 

more strange ? 521 

Or more complete to overwhelm surmise ? 
Ambition is no sluggard: 'tis no prize. 
That toiling years would put within my 

grasp, 
That I have sigh'd for : with so deadly gasp 
No man e'er panted for a mortal love. 
So all have set my heavier grief above 
These things which happen. Rightly have 

they done: 
I, who still saw the horizontal sun 
Heave his broad shoulder o'er the edge of 

the world, 530 

Out-facing Lucifer, and then had hurl'd 
My spear aloft, as signal for the chase — 
I, who, for very sport of heart, would 

race 
With my own steed from Araby; pluck 

down 
A vulture from his towery perching ; frown 
A lion into growling, loth retire — 
To lose, at once, all my toil-breeding fire, 
And sink thus low ! but I will ease my 

breast 
Of secret grief, here in this bowery nest. 

' This river does not see the naked sky. 
Till it begins to progress silverly 541 

Around the western border of the wood. 
Whence, from a certain spot, its winding 

flood 
Seems at the distance like a crescent moon: 
And in that nook, the very pride of June, 
Had I been used to pass my weary eves; 
The rather for the sun unwilling leaves 
So dear a picture of his sovereign power. 
And I could witness his most kingly hour, 
When he doth tighten up the golden reins. 
And paces leisurely down amber plains 551 
His snorting four. Now when his chariot 

last 
Its beams against the zodiac-lion cast. 
There blossom'd suddenly a magic bed 
Of sacred ditamy, and poppies red: 
At which I wondered greatly, knowing well 



BOOK FIRST 



That but one night had wrought this flow- 
ery spell; 
And, sitting down close by, began to muse 
What it might mean. Perhaps, thought I, 

Morpheus, 
In passing here, his owlet pinions shook; 
Or, it may be, ere matron Night uptook 561 
Her ebon urn, young Mercury, by stealth, 
Had dipt his rod in it: such garland wealth 
Came not by common growth. Thus on I 

thought. 
Until my head was dizzy and distraught. 
Moreover, through the dancing poppies 

stole 
A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul; 
And shaping visions all about my sight 
Of colours, wings, and bursts of spangly 

light; 
The which became more strange, and 

strange, and dim, 570 

And then were gulf 'd in a tumultuous swim : 
And then I fell asleep. Ah, can I tell 
The enchantment that afterwards befell ? 
Yet it was but a dream: yet such a dream 
That never tongue, although it overteem 
With mellow utterance, like a cavern 

spring. 
Could figure out and to conception bring 
All I beheld and felt. Methought I lay 
Watching the zenith, where the milky way 
Among the stars in virgin splendour pours ; 
And travelling my eye, until the doors 581 
Of heaven appear'd to open for my flight, 
I became loth and fearful to alight 
From such high soaring by a downward 

glance : 
So kept me steadfast in that airy trance. 
Spreading imaginary pinions wide. 
When, presently, the stars began to glide. 
And faint away, before my eager view: 
At which I sigh'd that I could not pursue, 
And dropt my vision to the horizon's verge; 
And lo ! from opening clouds, I saw 

emerge 591 

The loveliest moon, that ever silver'd o'er 
A shell for Neptune's goblet ; she did 

soar 
So passionately bright, my dazzled soul 



Commingling with her argent spheres did 
roll 

Through clear and cloudy, even when she 
. went 

At last into a dark and vapoury tent — 

Whereat, methought, the lidless-eyed train 

Of planets all were in the blue again. 

To commune with those orbs, once more I 
raised 600 

My sight right upward: but it was quite 
dazed 

By a bright something, sailing down apace. 

Making me quickly veil my eyes and face : 

Again I look'd, and, O ye deities, 

Who from Olympus watch our destinies ! 

W^hence that completed form of all com- 
pleteness ? 

Whence came that high perfection of all 
sweetness ? 

Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me where, 
O where 

Hast thou a symbol of her golden hair ? 

Not oat-sheaves drooping in the western 
sun; 610 

Not — thy soft hand, fair sister ! let me 
shun 

Such follying before thee — yet she had. 

Indeed, locks bright enough to make me 
mad; 

And they were simply gordian'd up and 
braided, 

Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded, 

Her pearl round ears, white neck, and 
orbed brow ; 

The which were blended in, I know not 
how. 

With such a paradise of lips and eyes. 

Blush-tinted cheeks, half smiles, and faint- 
est sighs. 

That, when I think thereon, my spirit 
clings 620 

And plays about its fancy, till the stings 

Of human neighbourhood envenom all. 

Unto what awful power shall I call ? 

To what high fane ? — Ah ! see her hover- 
ing feet, 

More bluely vein'd, more soft, more whitely 
sweet 



■ o' 



ENDYMION 



Than those of sea-born Venus, when she 

rose 
From out her cradle shell. The wind out- 
blows 
Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion ; 
'T is blue, and over-spangled with a million 
Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed, 
Over the darkest, lushest bluebell bed, 631 
Handfuls of daisies.' — 'Endymion, how 

strange ! 
Dream within dream ! ' — ' She took an 

airy range, 
And then, towards me, like a very maid, 
Came blushing, waning, willing, and afraid. 
And press'd me by the hand : Ah ! 't was 

too much; 
Methought I fainted at the charmed touch, 
Yet held my recollection, even as one 
Who dives three fathoms where the waters 

run 
Gurgling in beds of coral: for anon, 640 
I felt upmounted in that region 
Where falling stars dart their artillery forth. 
And eagles struggle with the buffeting 

north 
That balances the heavy meteor-stone ; — 
Felt too, I was not fearful, nor alone, 
But lapp'd and lull'd along the dangerous 

sky. 
Soon, as it seem'd, we left our journeying 

high, 
And straightway into frightful eddies 

swoop'd; 
Such as ay muster where gray time has 

scoop'd 
Huge dens and caverns in a mountain's 

side: 650 

There hollow sounds aroused me, and I 

sigh'd 
To faint once more by looking on my bliss — 
I was distracted ; madly did I kiss 
The wooing arms which held me, and did 

give 
My eyes at once to death : but 't was to live, 
To take in draughts of life from the gold 

fount 
Of kind and passionate looks; to count, 

and count 



The moments, by some greedy help that 

seem'd 
A second self, that each might be redeem'd 
And plunder'd of its load of blessed- 
ness. 660 
Ah, desperate mortal ! I ev'n dared to press 
Her very cheek against my crowned lip, 
And, at that moment, felt my body dip 
Into a warmer air: a moment more. 
Our feet were soft in flowers. There was 

store 
Of newest joys upon that alp. Sometimes 
A scent of violets, and blossoming limes, 
Loiter'd around us; then of honey cells, 
Made delicate from all white-flower bells; 
And once, above the edges of our nest, 670 
An arch face peep'd, — an Oread as I 
guess'd. 

' Why did I dream that sleep o'erpower'd 

me 
In midst of all this heaven ? Why not see. 
Far off, the sliadows of his pinions dark, 
And stare them from me ? But no, like a 

spark 
That needs must die, although its little 

beam 
Reflects upon a diamond, my sweet dream 
Fell into nothing — into stupid sleep. 
And so it was, until a gentle creep, 
A careful moving caught my waking 

ears, 680 

And up I started: Ah ! my sighs, my tears. 
My clenched hands ; — for lo ! the poppies 

hung 
Dew-dabbled on their stalks, the ouzel sung 
A heavy ditty, and the sullen day 
Had chidden herald Hesperus away, 
With leaden looks: the solitary breeze 
Bluster'd, and slept, and its wild self did 

tease 
With wayward melancholy ; and I thought, 
Mark me, Peona ! that sometimes it brought 
Faint fare -thee -wells, and sigh -shrilled 

adieus ! — 690 

Away I wander'd — all the pleasant hues 
Of heaven and earth had faded: deepest 

shades 



BOOK FIRST 



59 



Were deepest dungeons; heaths and sunny 

glades 
Were full of pestilent light; our taintless 

rills 
Seem'd sooty, and o'erspread with upturn'd 

gills 
Of dying fish; the vermeil rose had blown 
In frightful scarlet, and its thorns outgrown 
Like spiked aloe. If an innocent bird 
Before my heedless footsteps stirr'd, and 

stirr'd 
In little journeys, I beheld in it 700 

A disguised demon, missioned to knit 
My soul with under darkness; to entice 
My stumblings down some monstrous pre- 
cipice : 
Therefore I eager foUow'd, and did curse 
The disappointment. Time, that aged 

nurse, 
Rock'd me to patience. Now, thank gentle 

heaven ! 
These things, with all their comfortings, 

are given 
To my down-sunken hours, and with thee, 
Sweet sister, help to stem the ebbing sea 
Of weary life.' 

Thus ended he, and both 
Sat silent: for the maid was very loth 711 
To answer; feeling well that breathed 

words 
Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as 

swords 
Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps 
Of grasshoppers against the sun. She 

weeps. 
And wonders; struggles to devise some 

blame ; 
To put on such a look as would say. Shame 
On this poor weakness ! but, for all her 

strife, 
She could as soon have crush'd away the 

life 
From a sick dove. At length, to break the 

pause, 720 

She said with trembling chance: *Is this 

the cause ? 



That one who through this middle earth 

should pass 
Most like a sojourning demi-god, and leave 
His name upon the harp-string, should 

achieve 
No higher bard than simple maidenhood, 
Singing alone, and fearfully, — how the 

blood 
Left his young cheek ; and how he used to 

stray 
He knew not where; and how he would 

say, nay, 
If any said 't was love : and yet 't was 

love; 730 

What could it be but love ? How a ring- 
dove 
Let fall a sprig of yew-tree in his path ; 
And how he died: and then, that love doth 

scathe 
The gentle heart, as northern blasts do 

roses; 
And then the ballad of his sad life closes 
With sighs, and an alas ! — Endymion ! 
Be rather in the trumpet's mouth, — anon 
Among the winds at large — that all may 

hearken ! 
Although, before the crystal heavens 

darken, 
I watch and dote upon the silver lakes 740 
Pictured in western cloudiness, that takes 
The semblance of gold rocks and bright 

gold sands, 
Islands, and creeks, and amber-fretted 

strands 
With horses prancing o'er them, palaces 
And towers of amethyst, — would I so tease 
My pleasant days, because I could not 

mount 
Into those regions ? The Morphean foimt 
Of that fine element that visions, dreams. 
And fitful whims of sleep are made of, 

streams 
Into its airy channels with so subtle, 750 
So thin a breathing, not the spider's shuttle. 
Circled a million times within the space 
Of a swallow's nest-door, could delay a 

trace, 
A tinting of its quality: how light 



6o 



ENDYMION 



Must dreams themselves be; seeing they 're 

more slight 
Than the mere nothing that engenders 

them ! 
Then wherefore sully the entrusted gem 
Of high and noble life with thoughts so 

sick? 
Why pierce high-fronted honour to the 

quick 
For nothing but a dream ? ' Hereat the 

youth 760 

Look'd up : a conflicting of shame and ruth 
Was in bis plaited brow: yet his eyelids 
Widen'd a little, as when Zephyr bids 
A little breeze to creep between the fans 
Of careless butterflies: amid his pains 
He seem'd to taste a drop of manna-dew, 
Full palatable; and a colour grew 
Upon his cheek, while thus he lifef ul spake. 

V ' Peona ! ever have I long'd to slake 
My thirst for the world's praises: nothing 
base, 770 

No merely slumberous phantasm, could 

unlace 
The stubborn canvas for my voyage pre- 
pared — 
Though now 'tis tatter'd; leaving my bark 

bared 
And sullenly drifting: yet my higher hope 
Is of too wide, too rainbow-large a scope, . 
To fret at myriads of earthly wrecks. 
Wherein lies happiness ? In that which 

becks 
Our ready minds to fellowship divine, 
A fellowship with essence; till we shine, 
Full alchemized, and free of space. Be- 
hold 780 
The clear religion of heaven ! Fold 
A rose leaf round thy finger's taperness. 
And soothe thy lips: hist, when the airy 

stress 
Of music's kiss impregnates the free winds, 
And with a sympathetic touch unbinds 
iEolian magic from their lucid wombs: 
Then old songs waken from enclouded 

tombs ; 
Old ditties sigh above their father's grave; 



Ghosts of melodious prophesyings rave 
Round every spot where trod Apollo's 

foot; 7go 

Bronze clarions awake, and faintly bruit. 
Where long ago a giant battle was; 
And, from the turf, a lullaby doth pass 
In every place where infant Orpheus slept. 
Feel we these things ? — that moment have 

we stept 
Into a sort of oneness, and our state 
Is like a floating spirit's. But there are 
Richer entanglements, enthralments far 
More self-destroying, leading, by degrees. 
To the chief intensity: the crown of these 
Is made of love and friendship, and sits 

high 801 

Upon the forehead of humanity. 
All its more ponderous and bulky worth 
Is friendship, whence there ever issues forth 
A steady splendour; but at the tip-top. 
There hangs by unseen film, an orbed drop 
Of light, and that is love: its influence 
Thrown in our eyes genders a novel sense. 
At which we start and fret: till in the end. 
Melting into its radiance, we blend, 810 

Mingle, and so become a part of it, — 
Nor with aught else can our souls interknit 
So wiugedly: when we combine therewith. 
Life's self is nourish'd by its proper pith. 
And we are nurtured like a pelican brood. 
Aye, so delicious is the unsating food, 
That men, who might have tower'd in the 

van 
Of all the congregated world, to fan 
And winnow from the coming step of time 
All chaff of custom, wipe away all slime 820 
Left by men-slugs and human serpentry. 
Have been content to let occasion die. 
Whilst they did sleep in love's Elysium. 
And, truly, I would rather be struck dumb. 
Than speak against this ardent listless- 

ness: 
For I have ever thought that it might bless 
The world with benefits unknowingly; 
As does the nightingale, up-perched high. 
And cloister'd among cool and bunched 

leaves — 829 

She sings but to her love, nor e'er conceives 



BOOK FIRST 



6i 



How tiptoe Night holds back her dark- 
gray hood. 
Just so may love, although 't is understood 
The mere commingling of passionate breath, 
Produce more than our searching witness- 

eth: 
What I know not: but who, of men, can 

tell 
That flowers would bloom, or that green 

fruit would swell 
To melting pulp, that fish would have 

bright mail. 
The earth its dower of river, wood, and 

vale. 
The meadows runnels, runnels pebble- 
stones, 839 
The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones, 
Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet. 
If human souls did never kiss and greet ? 



V 



' Now, if this earthly love has power to 

make 
Men's being mortal, immortal; to shake 
Ambition from their memories, and brim 
Their measure of content; what merest 

whim. 
Seems all this poor endeavour after fame, 
To one, who keeps within his steadfast 

aim 
A love immortal, an immortal too. 
Look not so wilder'd; for these things are 

true 850 

And never can be born of atomies 
That buzz about our slumbers, like brain- 
flies, 
Leaving us fancy-sick. No, no, I 'm sure. 
My restless spirit never could endure 
To brood so long upon one luxury. 
Unless it did, though fearfully, espy 
A hope beyond the shadow of a dream. 
My sayings will the less obscured seem 
When I have told thee how my waking 

sight 
Has made me scruple whether that same 

night S60 

Was pass'd in dreaming. Hearken, sweet 

Peona ! 
Beyond the matron-temple of Latona, 



Which we should see but for these dark- 
ening boughs, 
Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged 

brows 
Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart, 
And meet so nearly, that with wings out- 

raught. 
And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide 
Past them, but he must brush on every 

side. 
Some moulder'd steps lead into this cool 

cell, 
Far as the slabbed margin of a well, 870 
Whose patient level peeps its crystal eye 
Right upward, through the bushes, to the 

sky. 
Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their 

stalks set 
Like vestal primroses, but dark velvet 
Edges them round, and they have golden 

pits: 
'T was there I got them, from the gaps and 

slits 
In a mossy stone, that sometimes was my 

seat, 
When all above was faint with mid-day 

heat. 
And there in strife no burning thoughts to 

heed, 
I 'd bubble up the water through a reed; 
So reaching back to boyhood: make me 

ships 881 

Of moulted feathers, touchwood, alder 

chips, J 

With leaves stuck in them; and the Nep- 
tune be 
Of their petty ocean. Oftener, heavily. 
When lovelorn hours had left me less a 

child, 
I sat contemplating the figures wild 
Of o'er-head clouds melting the mirror 

through. 
Upon a day, while thus I watch'd, by flew 
A cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver; 
So plainly character'd, no breeze would 

shiver 890 

The happy chance: so happy, I was fain 
To follow it upon the open plain, 



62 



ENDYMION 



And, therefore, was just going; when, be- 
hold ! 
A wonder, fair as any I have told — 
The same bright face I tasted in my sleep, 
Smiling in the clear well. My heart did 

leap 
Through the cool depth. — It moved as if 

to flee — 
I started up, when lo ! refreshfully, 
There came upon my face, in plenteous 

showers, 
Dew-drops, and dewy buds, and leaves, and 
flowers, 900 

Wrapping all objects from my smother'd 

sight, 
Bathing my spirit in a new delight. 
Aye, such a breathless honey-feel of bliss 
Alone preserved me from the drear abyss 
Of death, for the fair form had gone again. 
Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain 
Clings cruelly to us, like the gnawing sloth 
On the deer's tender haunches: late, and 

loth, 
'T is scared away by slow returning plea- 
sure. 
How sickening, how dark the dreadful lei- 
sure 910 
Of weary days, made deeper exquisite, 
By a foreknowledge of unslumbrous night ! 
Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still, 
Than when I wander'd from the poppy 

hill: 
And a whole age of lingering moments 

crept 
Sluggishly by, ere more contentment swept 
Away at once the deadly yellow spleen. 
Yes, thrice have I this fair enchantment 

seen; 

Once more been tortured with renewed life. 

When last the wintry gusts gave over 

strife 920 

"\Yitli the conquering sun of spring, and 

left the skies 
Warm and serene, but yet with moisten'd 

eyes 
In pity of the shatter'd infant buds, — 
That time thou didst adorn, with amber 
studs, 



My hunting cap, because I laugh'd and 

smiled. 
Chatted with thee, and many days exiled 
All torment from my breast; — 'twas even 

then. 
Straying about, yet coop'd up in the den 
Of helpless discontent, — hurling my lance 
From place to place, and following at 

chance, 930 

At last, by hap, through some young trees 

it struck, 
And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuck 
In the middle of a brook, — whose silver 

ramble 
Down twenty little falls through reeds and 

bramble, 
Tracing along, it brought me to a cave. 
Whence it ran brightly forth, and white 

did lave 
The nether sides of mossy stones and 

rock, — 
'Mong which it gurgled blithe adieus, to 

mock 
Its own sweet grief at parting. Overhead, 
Hung a lush screen of drooping weeds, and 

spread 940 

Thick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph's 

home. 
"Ah ! impious mortal, whither do I roam ! " 
Said I, low-voiced: "Ah, whither! 'T is the 

grot 
Of Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot. 
Doth her resign; and where her tender 

hands 
She dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands : 
Or 't is the cell of Echo, where she sits, 
And babbles thorough silence, till her wits 
Are gone in tender madness, and anon. 
Faints into sleep, with many a dying tone 
Of sadness. O that she would take my 

vows, 951 

And breathe them sighingly among the 

boughs. 
To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head. 
Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their 

bed. 
And weave them dyingly — send honey- 
whispers 



BOOK SECOND 



63 



ound every leaf, that all tliose gentle 

lispers 
[ay sigh my love unto her pitying ! 
charitable Echo ! hear, and sing 
his ditty to her ! — tell her " — So I stay'd 
^y foolish tongue, and listening, half 

afraid, 960 

;ood stupefied with my own empty folly, 
nd blushing for the freaks of melancholy, 
lit tears were coming, when I heard my 

name 
ost fondly lipp'd, and then these accents 

came: 
Endymion ! the cave is secreter 
ban the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall 

stir 
o sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light 

noise 
E thy combing hand, the while it travel- 
ling cloys 
nd trembles through my labyrinthine 

hair." 
t that oppress'd, I hurried in. — Ah ! 

where 970 

re tliose swift moments ? » Whither are 

they fled ? 
11 smile no more, Peona; nor will wed 
trrow, the way to death; but patiently 
3ar up against it: so farewell, sad sigh; 
ad come instead demurest meditation, 
J occupy me wholly, and to fashion 
y pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink. 
more will I count over, link by link, 
y chain of grief: no longer strive to find 
half-forgetfulness in mountain wind 9S0 
.ustering about my ears: aye, thou shalt 

see, 
Bares '"- of sisters, what my life shall be ; 
hat Ji calm round of hours shall make 

my days, 
lere is a paly flame of hope that plays 
'here'er I look: but yet, I'll say 'tis 

naught — 
ad here I bid it die. Have not I caught, 
Iready, a more healthy countenance ? 
Y this the sun is setting; we may chance 
eet some of our near-dwellers with my 

car.' 



This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a 
star 9go 

Through autumn mists, and took Peona's 
hand : 

They stept into the boat, and lauuch'd from 
land. 



BOOK II 

O SOVEREIGN power of love ! O grief ! O 

balm ! 
All records, saving thine, come cool, and 

calm. 
And shadowy, through the mist of passed 

years : 
For others, good or bad, hatred and 

tears 
Have become indolent; but touching thine, 
One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth 

pine, 
One kiss brings honey-dew from buried 

days. 
The woes of Troy, towers smothering o'er 

their blaze. 
Stiff - holden shields, far - piercing spears, 

keen blades. 
Struggling, and blood, and shrieks — all 

dimly fades 10 

Into some backward corner of the brain; 
Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain 
The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet. 
Hence, pageant history ! hence, gilded 

cheat ! 
Swart planet in the universe of deeds ! 
Wide sea, that one continuous murmur 

breeds 
Along the pebbled shore of memory ! 
Many old rotten - timber'd boats there 

be 
Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified 
To goodly vessels; many a sail of pride, 20 
And golden-keel'd, is left unlaunch'd and 

dry. 
But wherefore this ? What care, though 

owl did fly 
About the great Athenian admiral's mast ? 
What care, though striding Alexander past 



64 



ENDYMION 



The Indus with his Macedonian numbers ? 
Though old Ulysses tortured from his 

slumbers 
The glutted Cyclops, what care ? — Juliet 

leaning 
Amid her window- flowers, — sighing, — 

weaning 
Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow. 
Doth more aVail than these: the silver 

flow 30 

Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen, 
Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den. 
Are things to brood on with more ardency 
Than the death-day of empires. Fearfully 
Must such conviction come upon his head, 
Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to 

tread. 
Without one muse's smile, or kind behest, 
The path of love and poesy. But rest. 
In chafing restlessness, is yet more drear 
Than to be crush'd, in striving to uprear 40 
Love's standard on the battlements of song. 
So once more days and nights aid me along, 
Like legion'd soldiers. 

Brain-sick shepherd-prince. 
What promise hast thou faithful guarded 

since 
The day of sacrifice ? Or, have new sor- 
rows 
Come with the constant dawn upon thy 

morrows ? 
Alas ! 't is his old grief. For many days, 
Has he been wandering in uncertain ways: 
Through wilderness, and woods of mossed 

oaks; 
Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the 

strokes 50 

Of the lone wood-cutter ; and listening 

still. 
Hour after hour, to each lush-leaved rill. 
Now he is sitting by a shady spring. 
And elbow-deep with feverous fingering 
Stems the upbursting cold: a wild rose tree 
Pavilions him in bloom, and he doth see 
A bud which snares his fancy: lo ! but now 
He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water: 

how ! 



It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his 

^ sight; 
And, in the middle, there is softly pight 60 
A golden butterfly; upon whose wings 
There must be surely character'd strange 

things. 
For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles 

oft. 

Lightly this little herald flew aloft, 
FoUow'd by glad Endymiou's clasped 

hands: 
Onward it flies. From languor's sullen 

bands 
His limbs are loosed, and eager, on he hies 
Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies. 
It seem'd he flew, the way so easy was; 
And like a new-born spirit did he pass 70 
Through the green evening quiet in the sun. 
O'er many a heath, through many a wood- 
land dun. 
Through buried paths, where sleepy twi- 
light dreams 
The summer time away. One track un- 
seams 
A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue 
Of ocean fades upon him; then, anew, 
He sinks adown a solitary glen. 
Where there was never sound of mortal 

men. 
Saving, perhaps, some snow-light cadences 
Melting to silence, when upon the breeze So 
Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet, 
To cheer itself to Delphi. Still his feet 
Went swift beneath the merry - winged 

guide. 
Until it reach'd a splashing fountain's side 
That, near a cavern's mouth, for ever 

pour'd 
Unto the temperate air: then high it soar'd, 
And, downward, suddenly began to dip. 
As if, athirst with so much toil^ 't would 

sip 
The crystal spout-head: so it did, with 

touch 
Most delicate, as though afraid, to smutch, 90 
Even with mealy gold, the waters clear. 
But, at that very touch, to disappear 






BOOK SECOND 



65 



>o fairy-quick, was strange ! Bewildered, 
i^udymion sought around, and shook each 

bed 
)f covert flowers in vain ; and then he flung 
iimself along the grass. What gentle 

tongue, 
Vhat whisperer, disturb'd his gloomy rest ? 
t was a nymph uprisen to the breast 
n the fountain's pebbly margin, and she 

stood 
Mong lilies, like the youngest of the 

brood. 100 

'!o him her dripping hand she softly kist, 
Lnd anxiously began to plait and twist 
ler ringlets round her fingers, saying: 

' Youth ! 
^00 long, alas, hast thou starved on the 

ruth, 
'he bitterness of love: too long indeed, 
eeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed 
'hy soul of care, by heavens, I would offer 
ill the bright riches of my crystal coffer 
'o Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish, 
rolden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, no 
''ermilion - tail'd, or finn'd with silvery 

gauze ; 
'ea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws 
L virgin light to the deep ; my grotto-sands, 
"awny and gold, oozed slowly from far 

lands 
ly my diligent springs: my level lilies, 

shells, 
ly charming rod, my potent river spells ; 
es, every thing, even to the pearly cup 
leander gave me, — for I bubbled up 
'o fainting creatures in a desert wild, 
lut woe is me, I am but as a child 120 

'o gladden thee; and all I dare to say, 
3, that I pity thee; that on this day 
've been thy guide ; that thou must wander 

far 
a other regions, past the scanty bar 
'o mortal steps, before thou canst be ta'en 
rom every wasting sigh, from every pain, 
ato the gentle bosom of thy love. 
Vhj it is thus, one knows in heaven above: 
lUt, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewell ! 
have a ditty for my hollow cell.' 130 



Hereat she vanish'd from Endymion's 
gaze. 
Who brooded o'er the water in amaze: 
The dashing fount pour'd on, and where 

its pool 
Lay, half asleep, in grass and rushes cool. 
Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting- 
still. 
And fish were dimpling, as if good nor ill 
Had fallen out that hour. The wanderer, 
Holding his forehead, to keep off the burr 
Of smothering fancies, patiently sat down; 
And, while beneath the evening's sleepy 
frown 140 

Glowworms began to trim their starry 

lamps. 
Thus breathed he to himself: ' Whoso en- 
camps 
To take a fancied city of delight, 

what a wretch is he ! and when 't is his. 
After long toil and travelling, to miss 
The kernel of his hopes, how more than 

vile : 
Yet, for him there 's refreslmient even in 

toil: 
Another city doth he set about. 
Free from the smallest pebble -bead of 

doubt 149 

That he will seize on trickling honey-combs : 
Alas, he finds them dry; and then he foams. 
And onward to another city speeds. 
But this is human life: the war, the deeds, 
The disappointment, the anxiety. 
Imagination's struggles, far and nigh, 
All human; bearing in themselves this good. 
That they are still the air, the subtle food. 
To make us feel existence, and to show 
How quiet death is. Where soil is, men 

grow, 159 

Whether to weeds or flowers; but for me. 
There is no depth to strike in: I can see 
Naught earthly worth my compassing; so 

stand 
Upon a misty, jutting head of land — 
Alone ? No, no; and by the Orphean lute. 
When mad Eurydice is listening to 't, 

1 'd rather stand upon this misty peak, 
With not a thing to sigh for, or to seek, 



66 



ENDYMION 



But the soft shadow of my thrice seen love, 
Than be — I care not what. O meekest 

dove 
Of heaven ! O Cynthia, ten-times bright 

and fair ! 170 

From thy blue throne, now filling all the 

air, 
Glance but one little beam of temper'd 

light 
Into my bosom, that the dreadful might 
And tyranny of love be somewhat scared ! 
Yet do not so, sweet queen ; one torment 

spared,- 
Would give a pang to jealous misery, 
Worse than the torment's self: but rather 

tie 
Large wings upon my shoulders, and point 

out 
My love's far dwelling. Though the play- 
ful rout 179 
Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou, 
Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prow 
Not to have dipp'd in love's most gentle 

stream. 
O be propitious, nor severely deem 
My madness impious; for, by all the stars 
That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars 
That kept my spirit in are burst — that I 
Am sailing with thee through the dizzy 

sky! 
How beautiful thou art ! The world how 

deep ! 
How tremulous-dazzliugly the wheels sweep 
Around their axle ! Then these gleaming 

reins, 190 

How lithe ! When this thy chariot attains 
Its airy goal, haply some bower veils 
Those twilight eyes ? Those eyes ! — my 

spirit fails — 
Dear goddess, help ! or the wide gaping 

air 
Will giilf me — help ! ' — At this, with 

madden' d stare. 
And lifted hands, and trembling lips, he 

stood ; 
Like old Deucalion mountain'd o'er the 

flood. 
Or blind Orion hungry for the morn. 



And, but from the deep cavern there was 

borne 
A voice, he had been froze to senseless 

stone; 200 

Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passion'd 

moan 
Had more been heard. Thus swell'd it 

forth: ' Descend, 
Young mountaineer ! descend where alleys 

bend 
Into the sparry hollows of the world ! 
Oft hast thou seen bolts of the thunder ; 

hurl'd ] 

As from thy threshold; day by day hast 

been j 

A little lower than the chilly sheen 
Of icy pinnacles, and dipp'dst thine arms 
Into the deadening ether that still charms 
Their marble being : now, as deep pro- 
found 
As those are high, descend ! He ne'er is 

crown'd 2 1 1 

With immortality, who fears to follow 
Where airy voices lead: so through the 

hollow, 
The silent mysteries of earth, descend ! ' 

He heard but the last words, nor could 
contend 
One moment in reflection: for he fled 
Into the fearful deep, to hide his head 
From the clear moon, the trees, and com- 
ing madness. m 

'T was far too strange, and wonderful 
for sadness; 
Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite 220 
To dive into the deepest. Dark, nor light. 
The region; nor bright, nor sombre wholly. 
But mingled up; a gleaming melancholy; 
A dusky empire and its diadems; 
One faint eternal eventide of gems. 
Aye, millions sparkled on a vein of gold, 
Along whose track the prince quick foot- 
steps told, 
With all its lines abrupt and angular: 
Out-shooting sometimes, like a meteor-star, 
Through a vast autre ; then the metal woof, 



BOOK SECOND 



67 



ke Vulcan's rainbow, with some mon- 
strous roof 231 
iTves hugely : now, far in the deep abyss, 
seems an angry lightning, and doth hiss 
mcy into belief: anon it leads 
arough winding passages, where sameness 

breeds 
exing conceptions of some sudden change ; 
'^hether to silver grots, or giant range 
f sapphire columns, or fantastic bridge 
bhwart a flood of crystal. On a ridge 
ow fareth he, that o'er the vast beneath 
Dwers like an ocean-cliff, and whence he 
seeth 241 

hundred waterfalls, whose voices come 
at as the murmuring surge. Chilly and 

numb 
is bosom grew, when first he, far away, 
escried an orbed diamond, set to fray 
Id Darkness from his throne : 't was like 

the sun 
prisen o'er chaos: and with such a stun 
ime the amazement, that, absorb'd in it, 
e saw not fiercer wonders — past the 

wit 
f any spirit to tell, but one of those 250 
'^ho, when this planet's sphering time doth 

close 
ill be its high remembrancers : who they ? 
ae mighty ones who have made eternal 

day 
)r Greece and England. While astonish- 
ment 
"ith deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he 

went 
ito a marble gallery, passing through 
mimic temple, so complete and true 
I sacred custom, that he well nigh fear'd 
3 search it inwards; whence far oflF ap- 

pear'd, 
lirough a long pillar'd vista, a fair shrine, 
ad, just beyond, on light tiptoe divine, 261 
quiver'd Dian. Stepping awfully, 
lie youth approach'd; oft turning his 

veil'd eye 
own sidelong aisles, and into niches old: 
ad when, more near against the marble 
cold 



He had touch'd his forehead, he began to 

thread 
All courts and passages, where silence dead. 
Roused by his whispering footsteps, mur- 

mur'd faint: 
And long he traversed to and fro, to ac- 
quaint 
Himself with every mystery, and awe; 270 
Till, weary, he sat down before the maw 
Of a wide outlet, fathomless and dim. 
To wild uncertainty and shadows grim. . 
There, when new wonders ceased to float 

before. 
And thoughts of self came on, how crude 

and sore 
The journey homeward to habitual self ! 
A mad pursuing of the fog-born elf. 
Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle- 
brier. 
Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire, 
Into the bosom of a hated thing. 280 

What misery most drowningly doth sing 
In lone Endymion's ear, now he has raught 
The goal of consciousness ? Ah, 't is the 

thought. 
The deadly feel of solitude: for lo ! 
He cannot see the heavens, nor the flow 
Of rivers, nor hill-flowers running wild 
In pink and purple chequer, nor, up-piled, 
The cloudy rack slow journeying in the 

west. 
Like herded elephants; nor felt, nor prest 
Cool grass, nor tasted the fresh slumberous 

air ; 290 

But far from such companionship to wear 
An unknown time, surcharged with grief, 

away, 
Was now his lot. And must he patient stay, 
Tracing fantastic figures with his spear ? 
'No!' exclaim'd he, 'why should I tarry 

here ? ' 
No ! loudly echoed times innumerable. 
At which he straightway started, and 'gan 

tell 
His paces back into the temple's chief; 
Warming and glowing strong in the belief 
Of help from Dian: so that when again 300 



68 



ENDYMION 



He caught her airy form, thus did he plain, 
Moving more near the while: ' O Haunter 

chaste 
Of river sides, and woods, and heathy 

waste, 
Where with thy silver bow and arrows keen 
Art thou now forested ? O woodland 

Queen, 
What smoothest air thy smoother forehead 

woos ? 
Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos 
Of thy disparted nymphs ? Through what 

dark tree 
Glimmers thy crescent ? Wheresoe'er it be, 
'Tis in the breath of heaven: thou dost 

taste 3 lo 

Freedom as none can taste it, nor dost 

waste 
Thy loveliness in dismal elements; 
But, finding in our green earth sweet con- 
tents, 
There livest blissfully. Ah, if to thee 
It feels Elysian, how rich to me. 
An exiled mortal, sounds its pleasant name ! 
Within my breast there lives a choking 

flame — 
O let me cool 't the zephyr-boughs among ! 
A homeward fever parches up my tongue — 
O let me slake it at the running springs ! 320 
Upon my ear a noisy nothing rings — 
O let me once more hear the linnet's note ! 
Before mine eyes thick films and shadows 

float — 
O let nie 'noint them with the heaven's 

light ! 
Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles 

white ? 
O think how sweet to me the freshening 

sluice ! 
Dost thou now please thy thirst with berry- 
juice ? 
O think how this dry palate would rejoice ! 
If in soft slumber thou dost hear my voice, 
O think how I should love a bed of 

flowers ! — 330 

Young goddess ! let me see my native 

bowers ! 
Deliver me from this rapacious deep ! ' 



Thus ending loudly, as he would o'er- 

leap 
His destiny, alert he stood: but when 
Obstinate silence came heavily again, 
Feeling about for its old couch of space 
And airy cradle, lowly bow'd his face. 
Desponding, o'er the marble floor's cold 

thrill. 
But 't was not long ; for, sweeter than the 

rill 
To its old channel, or a swollen tide 340 
To margin sallows, were the leaves he spied, 
And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle 

crowns 
Upheaping through the slab: refreshment 

drowns 
Itself, and strives its own delights to hide — 
Nor in one spot alone; the floral pride 
In a long whispering birth enchanted grew 
Before his footsteps; as when heaved anew 
Old ocean rolls a lengthened wave to the 

shore, 
Down whose green back the short-lived 

foam, all hoar. 
Bursts gradual, with a wayward indo- 
lence. 350 

Increasing still in heart, and pleasant 

sense. 
Upon his fairy journey on he hastes; 
So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastes 
One moment with his hand among the 

sweets: 
Onward he goes — he stops — his bosom 

beats 
As plainly in his ear, as the faint charm 
Of which the throbs were born. This still 

alarm, 
This sleepy music, forced him walk tip- 
toe: 
For it came more softly than the east could 

blow 
Arion's magic to the Atlantic isles; 360 

Or than the west, made jealous by the 

smiles 
Of throned Apollo, could breathe back the 

lyre 
To seas Ionian and Tyrian. 



I 



BOOK SECOND 



69 



O did he ever live, that lonely man, 
V^ho loved — and music slew not ? 'T is 

the pest 
If love, that fairest joys give most unrest; 
'hat things of delicate and tenderest worth 
.re swallow'd all, and made a seared 

dearth, 
>y one consuming flame: it doth immerse 
Lud suffocate true blessings in a curse. 370 
[alf-happy, by comparison of bliss, 
s miserable. 'T was even so with this 
)ew-dropping melody, in the Carian's 

ear ; 
'irst heaven, then hell, and then forgotten 

clear, 
''anish'd in elemental passion. 

And down some swart abysm he had 
gone, 
lad not a heavenly guide benignant led 
'o where thick myrtle branches, 'gainst 

his head 
►rushing, awakened : then the sounds again 
7ent noiseless as a passing noontide 
rain 3 So 

)ver a bower, where little space he stood; 
'or as the sunset peeps into a wood, 
o saw he panting light, and towards it 

went 
!'hrough winding alleys; and lo, wonder- 
ment ! 
Jpon soft verdure saw, one here, one there, 
Jupids a-slumbering on their pinions fair. 

After a thousand mazes overgone, 
Lt last, with sudden step, he came upon 
L chamber, myrtle-wall'd, embower'd high, 
^uU of light, incense, tender minstrelsy, 390 
Lnd more of beautiful and strange beside : 
^or on a silken couch of rosy pride, 
n midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth 
)f fondest beauty; fonder, in fair sooth, 
Chan sighs could fathom, or contentment 

reach : 
llnd coverlids gold-tinted like the peach, 
)r ripe October's faded marigolds, 
^ell sleek about him in a thousand folds — 
STot hiding up an Apollonian curve 



Of neck and shoulder, nor the tenting 

swerve 400 

Of knee from knee, nor ankles pointing 

light; 
But rather, giving them to the fiU'd sight 
Officiously. Sideway his face reposed 
On one white arm, and tenderly unclosed, 
By tenderest pressure, a faint damask 

mouth 
To slumbery pout; just as the morning 

south 
Disparts a dew-lipp'd rose. Above his 

head. 
Four lily stalks did their white honours 

wed 
To make a coronal; and round him grew 
All tendrils green, of every bloom and 

hue, 410 

Together intertwined and trammell'd fresh: 
The vine of glossy sprout; the ivy mesh. 
Shading its Ethiop berries ; and woodbine. 
Of velvet-leaves and bugle-blooms divine ; 
Convolvulus in streaked vases flush; 
The creeper, mellowing for an autumn 

blush ; 
And virgin's bower, trailing airily ; 
With others of the sisterhood. Hard by. 
Stood serene Cupids watching silently. 
One, kneeling to a lyre, touch'd tlie 

strings, 42° 

Muffling to death the pathos with his wings; 
And, ever and anon, uprose to look 
At the youth's slumber; while another took 
A willow bough, distilling odorous dew. 
And shook it on his hair; another flew 
In through the woven roof, and fluttering- 

wise 
Rain'd violets upon his sleeping eyes. 

At these enchantments, and yet many 
more. 

The breathless Latmian wonder'd o'er and 
o'er; 

Until impatient in embarrassment, 430 

He forthright pass'd, and lightly treading 
went 

To that same feather'd lyrist, who straight- 
way. 



7° 



ENDYMION 



Smiling, thus whisper'd : ' Though from 

upper day 
Thou art a wanderer, and thy presence 

here 
Might seem unholy, be of happy cheer ! 
For 't is the nicest touch of human honour, 
When some ethereal and high-favouring 

donor 
Presents immortal bowers to mortal sense; 
As now 't is done to thee, Endymion. Hence 
Was I in no wise startled. So recline 440 
Upon these living flowers. Here is wine. 
Alive with sparkles — never, I aver, 
Since Ariadne was a vintager. 
So cool a purple: taste these juicy pears. 
Sent me by sad Vertumnus, when his fears 
Were high about Pomona: here is cream. 
Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam ; 
Sweeter than that nurse Amalthea skimmi'd 
For the boy Jupiter: and here, undimm'd 
By any touch, a bunch of blooming plums 
Ready to melt between an infant's gums: 
And here is manna pick'd from Syrian 

trees, 452 

In starlight, by the three Hesperides. 
Feast on, and meanwhile I will let thee 

know 
Of all these things around us.' He did 

so. 
Still brooding o'er the cadence of his lyre; 
And thus : ' I need not any hearing tire 
By telling how the sea-born goddess pined 
For a mortal youth, and how she strove to 

bind 
Him all in all unto her doating self. 460 
Who would not be so prison'd ? but, fond 

elf, 
He was content to let her amorous plea 
Faint through his careless arms; content to 

see 
An unseized heaven dying at his feet; 
Content, O fool ! to make a cold retreat. 
When on the pleasant grass such love, love- 
lorn. 
Lay sorrowing; when every tear was born 
Of diverse passion; when her lips and eyes 
Were closed in sullen moisture, and quick 

sighs 



Came vex'd and pettish through her nos- 
trils small. 470 

Hush ! no exclaim — yet, justly might'st 
thou call 

Curses upon his head. — I was half glad. 

But my poor mistress went distract and 
mad, 

When the boar tusk'd him : so away she flew 

To Jove's high throne, and by her plainings 
drew 

Immortal tear-drops down the thunderer's 
beard; 

Whereon, it was decreed he should be 
rear'd 

Each summer-time to life. Lo ! this is he, 

That same Adonis, safe in the privacy 

Of this still region all his winter-sleep. 480 

Aye, sleep; for when our love-sick queen 
did weep 

Over his waned corse, the tremulous 
shower 

Heal'd up the wound, and, with a balmy 
power, 

Medicined death to a lengthened drowsi- 
ness : 

The which she fills with visions, and doth 
dress 

In all this quiet luxury; and hath set 

Us y^ung immortals, without any let. 

To watch his slumber through. 'T is well 
nigh pass'd, 

Even to a moment's filling up, and fast 

She scuds with summer breezes, to pant 
through 490 

The first long kiss, warm firstling, to renew 

Embower'd sports in Cytherea's isle. 

Look! how those winged listeners all this 
while 

Stand anxious : see ! behold ! ' — This cla- 
mant word 

Broke through the careful silence; for 
they heard 

A rustling noise of leaves, and out there 
flutter'd 

Pigeons and doves: Adonis something 
mutter'd, 

The while one hand, that erst upon his 
thigh 



BOOK SECOND 



71 



Lay dormant, moved convulsed and gradu- 
ally 
dp to his forehead. Then there was a 

hum 500 

Df sudden voices, echoing, ' Come ! come ! 
!^rise ! awake ! Clear summer has forth 

walk'd 
Unto the clover-sward, and she has talk'd 
Full soothingly to every nested finch: 
Rise, Cupids ! or we '11 give the bluebell 

pinch 
Co your dimpled arms. Once more sweet 

life begin ! ' 
\.t this, from every side they hurried in, 
[tubbing their sleepy eyes with lazy wrists, 
^nd doubling overhead their little fists 
[n backward yawns. But all were soon 

alive: 510 

?OT, as delicious wine doth, sparkling, dive 
[n nectar'd clouds and curls through water 

fair, 
50 from the arbour roof down swell'd an air 
3dorous and enlivening; making all 
Ho laugh, and play, and sing, and loudly call 
For their sweet queen: when lo ! the 

wreathed green 
Disparted, and far upward could be seen 
Slue heaven, and a silver car, air-borne, 
IVhose silent wheels, fresh wet from clouds 

of morn, 
Spun off a drizzling dew, — which falling 

chill 520 

3n soft Adonis' shoulders, made him still 
S^estle and turn uneasily about, 
soon were the white doves plain, with necks 

stretch'd out, 
^nd silken traces lighten'd in descent; 
^nd soon, returning from love's banish- 
ment, 
^ueen Venus leaning downward open- 

arm'd: 
Her shadow fell upon his breast, and 

charm'd 
A. tumult to his heart, and a new life 
[nto his eyes. Ah, miserable strife. 
But for her comforting ! unhappy sight, 530 
But meeting her blue orbs ! Who, who 

can write 



Of these first minutes ? The unchariest 

muse 
To embracements warm as theirs makes 

coy excuse. 

O it has ruffled every spirit there. 
Saving Love's self, who stands superb to 

share 
The general gladness: awfully he stands; 
A sovereign quell is in his waving hands; 
No sight can bear the lightning of his bow; 
His quiver is mysterious, none can know 
What themselves think of it; from forth 

his eyes 540 

There darts strange light of varied hues 

and dyes: 
A scowl is sometimes on his brow, but who 
Look full upon it feel anon the blue 
Of his fair eyes run liquid through their 

souls. 
Endymion feels it, and no more controls 
The burning prayer within him; so, bent 

low. 
He had begun a plaining of his woe. 
But Venus, bending forward, said: ' My 

child, 
Favour this gentle youth; his days are wild 
With love — he — but alas ! too well I see 
Thou know'st the deepness of his misery. 
Ah, smile not so, my son: I tell thee true. 
That when through heavy hours I used to 

rue 553 

The endless sleep of this new-born Adon', 
This stranger ay I pitied. For upon 
A dreary morning once I fled away 
Into the breezy clouds, to weep and pray 
For this my love: for vexing Mars had 

teased 
Me even to tears: thence, when a little 

eased, 
Down-looking, vacant, through a hazy wood, 
I saw this youth as he despairing stood: 561 
Those same dark curls blown vagrant in 

the wind; 
Those same full fringed lids a constant 

blind 
Over his sullen eyes: I saw him throw 
Himself on wither'd leaves, even as though 



72 



ENDYMION 



Death had come sudden; for no jot he 

moved, 
Yet mutter'd wildly. I could hear he loved 
Some fair immortal, and that his embrace 
Had zoned her through the night. There 

is no trace 
Of this in heaven: I have mark'd each 

cheek, 570 

And find it is the vainest thing to seek ; 
And that of all things 't is kept secretest. 
Endymion ! one day thou wilt be blest: 
So still obey the guiding hand that fends 
Thee safely through these wonders for 

sweet ends. 
'T is a concealment needful in extreme ; 
And if I guess'd not so, the sunny beam 
Thou shouldst mount up with me. Now 

adieu ! 
Here must we leave thee.' — At these 

words upflew 
The impatient doves, uprose the floating 

car, 580 

Up went the hum celestial. High afar 
The Latmian saw them minish into naught; 
And, when all were clear vanish'd, still he 

caught 
A vivid lightning from that dreadful bow. 
When all was darken'd, with ^tnean throe 
The earth closed — gave a solitary moan — 
And left him once again in twilight lone. 

He did not rave, he did not stare aghast, 
For all those visions were o'ergone, and 

past. 
And he in loneliness: he felt assured 590 
Of happy times, when all he had endured 
Would seem a feather to the mighty prize. 
So, with unusual gladness, on he hies 
Through caves, and palaces of mottled 

ore. 
Gold dome, and crystal wall, and turquois 

floor, 
Black polish'd porticos of awful shade. 
And, at the last, a diamond balustrade, 
Leading afar past wild magnificence. 
Spiral through ruggedest looplioles, and 

thence 
Stretching across a void, then guiding o'er 



Enormous chasms, where, all foam and 

roar, 601 

Streams subterranean tease their granite 

beds; 
Then heighten'd just above the silvery heads 
Of a thousand fountains, so that he could 

dash 
The waters with his spear; but at the 

splash, 
Done heedlessly, those spouting columns 

rose 
Sudden a poplar's height, and 'gan to en- 
close 
His diamond path with fretwork, streaming 

round 
Alive, and dazzling cool, and with a sound, 
Haply, like dolphin tumults, when sweet 

shells 610 

Welcome the float of Thetis. Long he 

dwells 
On this delight; for, every minute's space, 
The streams with changed magic interlace: 
Sometimes like delicatest lattices, 
Cover'd with crystal vines; then weeping 

trees. 
Moving about as in a gentle wind, 
Which, in a wink, to watery gauze refined, 
Pour'd into shapes of curtain'd canopies. 
Spangled, and rich with liquid broideries 
Of flowers, peacocks, swans, and naiads 

fair. 620 

Swifter than lightning went these wonders 

rare; 
And then the water, into stubborn streams 
Collecting, mimick'd the wrought oaken 

beams. 
Pillars, and frieze, and high fantastic roof. 
Of those dusk places in times far aloof 
Cathedrals call'd. He bade a loth fare- 
well 
To these founts Protean, passing gulf, and 

dell. 
And torrent, and ten thousand jutting 

shapes, 
Half seen through deepest gloom, and 

griesly gapes, 
Blackening on every side, and overhead 630 
A vaulted dome like Heaven's, far bespread 



BOOK SECOND 



73 



With starlight gems: aye, all so huge and 

strange, 
The solitary felt a hurried change 
Working within him into something 

dreary, — 
Vex'd like a morning eagle, lost, and weary. 
And purhlind amid foggy, midnight wolds. 
But he revives at once: for who beholds 
New sudden things, nor casts his mental 

slough ? 
Forth from a rugged arch, in the dusk be- 
low, 639 
Came mother Cybele ! alone — alone — 
In sombre chariot; dark foldings thrown 
About her majesty, and front death-pale. 
With turrets crown'd. Four maued lions 

hale 
The sluggish wheels; solemn their toothed 

maws. 
Their surly eyes brow-hidden, heavy paws 
Uplifted drowsily, and nervy tails 
Cowering their tawny brushes. Silent sails 
Phis shadowy queen athwart, and faints 

away 
[n another gloomy arch. 

AYlierefore delay, 
foung traveller, in such a mournful place ? 
A.rt thou wayworn, or canst not further 

trace 65 1 

Fhe diamond path ? And does it indeed 

end 
(Abrupt in middle air ? Yet earthward 

bend 
Fhy forehead, and to Jupiter cloud-borne 
Dall ardently ! He was indeed wayworn; 
(Abrupt, in middle air, his way was lost; 
Fo cloud-borne Jove he bowed, and there 

crost 
Fowards him a large eagle, 'twixt whose 

wings, 
iVithout one impious word, himself he 

flings, 
Committed to the darkness and the gloom: 
Down, down, uncertain to what pleasant 

doom, 661 

Swift as a fathoming plummet down he 

fell 



Through unknown things; till exhaled as- 
phodel. 

And rose, with spicy fannings interbreathed, 

Came swelling forth where little caves were 
wreathed 

So thick with leaves and mosses, that they 
seem'd 

Large honeycombs of green, and freshly 
teem'd 

With airs delicious. In the greenest nook 

The eagle landed him, and farewell took. 

It was a jasmine bower, all bestrewn 670 
With golden moss. His every sense had 

grown 
Ethereal for pleasure; 'bove his head 
Flew a delight half-graspable ; his tread 
Was Hesperean; to his capable ears 
Silence was music from the holy spheres; 
A dewy luxury was in his eyes; 
The little flowers felt his pleasant sighs 
And stirr'd them faintly. Verdant cave 

and cell 
He wander'd through, oft wondering at 

such swell 
Of sudden exaltation: but, 'Alas !' 680 

Said he, * will all this gush of feeling pass 
Away in solitude ? And must they wane. 
Like melodies upon a sandy plain, 
Without an echo ? Then shall I be left 
So sad, so melancholy, so bereft ! 
Yet still I feel immortal ! O my love, 
My breath of life, where art thou ? High 

above, 
Dancing before the morning gates of 

heaven ? 
Or keeping watch among those starry seven, 
Old Atlas' children ? Art a maid of the 

waters, 690 

One of shell-winding Triton's bright-hair'd 

daughters ? 
Or art, impossible ! a nymph of Dian's, 
Weaving a coronal of tender scions 
For very idleness ? W^here'er thou art, 
Methinks it now is at my will to start 
Into thine arms; to scare Aurora's train. 
And snatch thee from the morning; o'er 

the main 



74 



ENDYMION 



To scud like a wild bird, and take thee off 
From thy sea-foamy cradle; or to doff 
Thy shepherd vest, and woo thee 'mid 

fresh leaves. 7°° 

No, no, too eagerly my soul deceives 
Its powerless self: I know this cannot be. 
O let me then by some sweet dreaming 

flee 
To her entrancements : hither sleep awhile ! 
Hither most gentle sleep ! and soothing foil 
For some few hours the coming solitude.' 

Thus spake he, and that moment felt 

endued 
With power to dream deliciously; so wound 
Through a dim passage, searching till he 

found 
The smoothest mossy bed and deepest, 

where 7'° 

He threw himself, and just into the air 
Stretching his indolent arms, he took, O 

bliss ! 
A naked waist: 'Fair Cupid, whence is 

this ? ' 
A well - known voice sigh'd, * Sweetest, 

here am I ! ' 
At which soft ravishment, with doting cry 
They trembled to each other. — Helicon ! 
O fountain'd hill ! Old Homer's Helicon ! 
That thou wouldst spout a little streamlet 

o'er 
These sorry pages; then the verse would 

soar 
And sing above this gentle pair, like lark 
Over his nested young: but all is dark 721 
Around thine aged top, and thy clear fount 
Exhales in mists to heaven. Aye, the count 
Of mighty Poets is made up ; the scroll 
Is folded by the Muses; the bright roll 
Is in Apollo's hand: our dazed eyes 
Have seen a new tinge in the western skies: 
The world has done its duty. Yet, oh yet. 
Although the sun of poesy is set, 
These lovers did embrace, and we must 

weep 730 

That there is no old power left to steep 
A quill immortal in their joyous tears. 
Long time in silence did their anxious fears 



Question that thus it was; long time they 

lay 
Fondling and kissing every doubt away; 
Long time ere soft caressing sobs began 
To mellow into words, and then there ran 
Two bubbling springs of talk from their 

sweet lips. 
' O known Unknown ! from whom my be- 
ing sips 739 
Such darling essence, wherefore may I not 
Be ever in these arms ? in this sweet spot 
Pillow my chin for ever ? ever press 
These toying hands and kiss their smooth 

excess ? 
Why not for ever and for ever feel 
That breath about my eyes ? Ah, thou wilt 

steal 
Away from me again, indeed, indeed — 
Thou wilt be gone away, and wilt not heed 
My lonely madness. Speak, delicious fair 
Is — is it to be so ? No ! Who will dare 
To pluck thee from me ? And, of thine 
own will, 750 

Full well I feel thou wouldst not leave me. 

Still 
Let me entwine thee surer, surer — now 
How can we part ? Elysium ! Who art 

thou? 
Who, that thou canst not be for ever here. 
Or lift me with thee to some starry sphere ? 
Enchantress ! tell me by this soft embrace, 
By the most soft completion of thy face. 
Those lips, O slippery blisses, twinkling 

eyes. 
And by these tenderest, milky sovereign- 
ties — 
These tenderest, and by the nectar-wine, 
The passion ' — ' O doved Ida the di- 
vine ! 761 
Endymion ! dearest ! Ah, unhappy me ! 
His soul will 'scape us — O felicity ! 
How he does love me ! His poor temples 

beat 
To the very tune of love — how sweet, 

sweet, sweet. 
Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and 

die; 
Revive, or these soft hours will hurry by 



BOOK SECOND 



75 



[n tranced dullness; speak, and let that 

spell 
bright this lethargy ! I cannot quell 
[ts heavy pressure, and will press at least 
yiy lips to thine, that they may richly 
feast 771 

Jntil we taste the life of love again. 
PVhat ! dost thou move ? dost kiss ? O 

bliss ! O pain ! 
[ love thee, youth, more than I can con- 
ceive ; 
ind so long absence from thee doth be- 
reave 
Vly soul of any rest: yet must I hence: 
iTet, can I not to starry eminence 
[Jplif t thee ; nor for very shame can own 
Vlyself to thee. Ah, dearest, do not groan 
Dr thou wilt force me from this secrecy, 780 
!^nd I must blush in heaven. O that I 
Had done it already ; that the dreadful 

smiles 
^.t my lost brightness, my impassion'd 

wiles, 
Had waned from Olympus' solemn height, 
^d from all serious Gods; that our de- 
light 
^as quite forgotten, save of us alone ! 
A.nd wherefore so ashamed ? 'T is but to 

atone 
For endless pleasure, by some coward 

blushes : 
Yet must I be a coward ! — Honour rushes 
loo palpable before me — the sad look 790 
3f Jove — Minerva's start — no bosom 

shook 
With awe of purity — no Cupid pinion 
[n reverence veiled — my crystalline do- 
minion 
Half lost, and all old hymns made nul- 

lity! 
But what is this to love ? 1 could fly 
With thee into the ken of heavenly pow- 
ers. 
So thou wouldst thus, for many sequent 

hours, 
Press me so sweetly. Now I swear at 

once 
That I am wise, that Pallas is a dunce — 



Perhaps her love like mine is but un- 
known — 800 

I do think that I have been alone 

In chastity: yes, Pallas has been sighing, 
While every eve saw me my hair uptying 
With fingers cool as aspen leaves. Sweet 
love, 

1 was as vague as solitary dove, 

Nor knew that nests were built. Now a 

soft kiss — 
Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss, 
An immortality of passion 's thine : 
Ere long I will exalt thee to the shine 
Of heaven ambrosial; and we will shade 810 
Ourselves whole summers by a river glade; 
And I will tell thee stories of the sky. 
And breathe thee whispers of its minstrelsy. 
My happy love will overwiug all bounds ! 
O let me melt into thee; let the sounds 
Of our close voices marry at their birth; 
Let us entwine hoveringly — O dearth 
Of human words ! roughness of mortal 

speech ! 
Lispings empyrean will I sometime teach 
Thine honey'd tongue — lute-breathings, 

which I gasp 820 

To have thee understand, now while I 

clasp 
Thee thus, and weep for fondness — I am 

pain'd, 
Endymion: woe ! woe ! is grief contain'd 
In the very deeps of pleasure, my sole 

life ? ' — 
Hereat, with many sobs, her gentle strife 
Melted into a languor. He return'd 
Entranced vows and tears. 

Ye who have yearn'd 
With too much passion, will here stay and 

pity, 

For the mere sake of truth; as 't is a ditty 
Not of these days, but long ago 't was told 
By a cavern wind unto a forest old; 831 
And then the forest told it in a dream 
To a sleeping lake, whose cool and level 

gleam 
A poet caught as he was journeying 
To Phcebus' shrine ; and in it he did fling 



76 



ENDYMION 



His weary limbs, bathing an hour's space, 
And after, straight in that inspired place 
He sang the story up into the air, 
Giving it universal freedom. There 
Has it been ever sounding for those ears 840 
Whose tips are glowing hot. The legend 

cheers 
Yon sentinel stars; and he who listens 

to it 
Must surely be self-doom'd or he will 

rue it: 
For quenchless burnings come upon the 

heart, 
Made fiercer by a fear lest any part 
Should be engulfed in the eddying wind. 
As much as here is penn'd doth always 

find 
A resting-place, thus much comes clear and 

plain ; 
Anon the strange voice is upon the wane — 
And 't is but echoed from departing sound. 
That the fair visitant at last unwound 851 
Her gentle limbs, and left the youth 

asleep. — 
Thus the tradition of the gusty deep. 

Now turn we to our former chroni- 
clers. — 
Endymion awoke, that grief of hers 
Sweet paining on his ear: he sickly guess'd 
How lone he was once more, and sadly 

press'd 
His empty arms together, hung his head. 
And most forlorn upon that widow'd bed 
Sat silently. Love's madness he had 

known : 860 

Often with more than tortured lion's groan 
Meanings had burst from him; but now 

that rage 
Had pass'd away: no longer did he wage 
A rough-voiced war against the dooming 

stars. 
No, he had felt too much for such harsh 

jars: 
The lyre of his soul ^olian tuned 
Forgot all violence, and but communed 
With melancholy thought : O he had 

swoou'd 



Drunken from pleasure's nipple; and his 

love 
Henceforth was dove-like. — Loth was he 

to move 870 

From the imprinted couch, and when he 

did, 
'T was with slow, languid paces, and face 

hid 
In muffling hands. So temper'd, out he 

stray 'd 
Half seeing visions that might have dis- 

may'd 
Alecto's serpents; ravishments more keen 
Than Hermes' pipe, when anxious he did 

lean 
Over eclipsing eyes: and at the last 
It was a sounding grotto, vaulted, vast, 
O'erstudded with a thousand, thousand 

pearls. 
And crimson-mouthed shells with stubborn 

curls, 8S0 

Of every shape and size, even to the bulk 
In which whales harbour close, to brood 

and sulk 
Against an endless storm. Moreover too. 
Fish-semblances, of green and azure hue, 
Ready to snort their streams. In this cool 

wonder 
Endymion sat down, and 'gan to ponder 
On all his life : his youth, up to the day 
When 'mid acclaim, and feasts, and gar- 
lands gay. 
He stept upon his shepherd throne: the look 
Of his white palace in wild forest nook, 890 
And all the revels he had lorded there: 
Each tender maiden whom he once thought 

fair. 
With every friend and fellow- woodlander — 
Pass'd like a dream before him. Then the 

spur 
Of the old bards to mighty deeds: his plans 
To nurse the golden age 'mong shepherd 

clans : 
That wondrous night: the great Pan-festi- 
val: 
His sister's sorrow; and his wanderings all. 
Until into the earth's deep maw he rush'd: 
Then all its buried magic, till it flush'd 900 



BOOK SECOND 



77 



iigh. with excessive love. 'Aud now,' 

thought he, 
How long must I remain in jeopardy 
)f blank amazements that amaze no more ? 
^ow I have tasted her sweet soul to the 

core, 
Lll other depths are shallow: essences, 
)nce spiritual, are like muddy lees, 
ileant but to fertilize my earthly root, 
^nd make my branches lift a golden fruit 
nto the bloom of heaven: other light, 
though it be quick and sharp enough to 

blight 910 

['he Olympian eagle's vision, is dark, 
)ark as the parentage of chaos. Hark ! 
dy silent thoughts are echoing from these 

shells ; 
)r they are but the ghosts, the dying swells 
)f noises far away ? — list ! ' — Hereupon 
le kept an anxious ear. The humming 

tone 
)ame louder, and behold, there as he lay, 
)n either side outgush'd, with misty spray, 
L copious spring; and both together dash'd 
Iwift, mad, fantastic round the rocks, and 

lash'd 920 

Lmong the conchs and shells of the lofty 

grot, 
weaving a trickling dew. At last they 

shot 
)own from the ceiling's height, pouring a 

noise 
Ls of some breathless racers whose hopes 

poise 
Jpon the last few steps, and with spent 

force 
lloug the ground they took a winding 

course, 
jndymion follow'd — for it seem'd that 

one 
iver pursued, the other strove to shun — 
'ollow'd their languid mazes, till well nigh 
le had left thinking of the mystery, — 930 
Lnd was now rapt in tender hoverings 
)ver the vanish'd bliss. Ah ! what is it 

sings 
lis dream away ? What melodies are 

these ? 



They sound as through the whispering of 

trees. 
Not native in such barren vaults. Give 



' O Arethusa, peerless nymph ! why fear 
Such tenderness as mine ? Great Dian, 

why, 
Why didst thou hear her prayer ? O that I 
Were rippling round her dainty fairness 

now, 935 

Circling about her waist, and striving how 
To entice her to a dive ! then stealing in 
Between her luscious lips and eyelids thin. 

that her shining hair was in the sun, 
And I distilling from it thence to run 

In amorous rillets down her shrinking form ! 
To linger on her lily shoulders, warm 
Between her kissing breasts, and every 

charm 
Touch raptured ! — see how painfully I 

flow: 
Fair maid, be pitiful to my great woe. 
Stay, stay thy weary course, and let me 

lead, 950 

A happy wooer, to the flowery mead 
Where all that beauty snared me.' — 

' Cruel god. 
Desist ! or my offended mistress' nod 
Will stagnate all thy fountains: — tease me 

not 
With siren words — Ah, have I really got 
Such power to madden thee ? And is it 

true — 
Away, away, or I shall dearly rue 
My very thoughts : in mercy then away. 
Kindest Alpheus, for should I obey 959 

My own dear will, 't would be a deadly 

bane.' 
' O, Oread-Queen ! would that thou hadst a 

pain 
Like this of mine, then would I fearless 

turn 
And be a criminal.' ' Alas, I burn, 

1 shudder — gentle river, get thee hence. 
Alpheus ! thou enchanter ! every sense 
Of mine was once made perfect in these 

woods. 



78 



ENDYMION 



Fresh breezes, bowery lawns, and innocent 

floods, 
Ripe fruits, and lonely couch, contentment 

gave; 
But ever since I heedlessly did lave 
In thy deceitful stream, a panting glow 970 
Grew strong within me: wherefore serve 

me so, 
And call it love ? Alas ! 't was cruelty. 
Not once more did I close my happy eye 
Amid the thrush's song. Away ! avaunt ! 

't was a cruel thing.' — ' Now thou dost 

taunt 
So softly, Arethusa, that I think 
If thou wast playing on my shady brink, 
Thou wouldst bathe once again. Innocent 

maid ! 
Stifle thine heart no more ; — nor be afraid 
Of angry powers: there are deities gSo 

Will shade us with their wings. Those 

fitful sighs 
'Tis almost death to hear: O let me pour 
A dewy balm upon them ! — fear no more, 
Sweet Arethusa ! Dian's self must feel 
Sometimes these very pangs. Dear maiden, 

steal 
Blushing into my soul, and let us fly 
These dreary caverns for the open sky. 

1 will delight thee all my winding course, 
From the green sea up to my hidden source 
About Arcadian forests; and will show 990 
The channels where my coolest waters flow 
Through mossy rocks; where 'mid exuber- 
ant green, ^ 

I roam in pleasant darkness, more unseen 
Than Saturn in his exile; where I brim 
Round flowery islands, and take thence a 

skim 
Of mealy sweets, which myriads of bees 
Buzz from their honey'd wings: and thou 

shouldst please 
Thyself to choose the richest, where we 

might 
Be incense-pillow'd every summer night. 
Doff all sad fears, thou white deliciousness. 
And let us be thus comforted ; unless looi 
Thou couldst rejoice to see my hopeless 

stream 



Hurry distracted from Sol's temperate 

beam. 
And pour to death along some hungry 

sands.' — 
' What can I do, Alpheus ? Dian stands 
Severe before me : persecuting fate ! 
Unhappy Arethusa ! thou wast late 
A huntress free in ' — At this, sudden 

fell 
Those two sad streams adown a fearful 

dell. 
The Latmian listen'd, but he heard no 

more, loio 

Save echo, faint repeating o'er and o'er 
The name of Arethusa. On the verge 
Of that dark gulf he wept, and said : ' I 

urge 
Thee, gentle Goddess of my pilgrimage, 
By our eternal hopes, to soothe, to assuage, 
If thou art powerful, these lovers' pains; 
And make them happy in some happy 

plains.' 

He turn'd — there was a whelming sound 

— he stept. 
There was a cooler light; and so he kept 
Towards it by a sandy path, and lo ! 1020 
More suddenly than doth a moment go. 
The visions of the earth were gone and 

fled — 
He saw the giant sea above his head. 



BOOK 111 

There are who lord it o'er their fellow- 
men 
With most prevailing tinsel: who unpen 
Their baaing vanities, to browse away 
The comfortable green and juicy hay 
From human pastures; or, O torturing 

fact! 
Who, through an idiot blink, will see un- 

pack'd 
Fire-branded foxes to sear up and singe 
Our gold and ripe-ear'd hopes. With not 

one tinge 
Of sanctuary splendour, not a sight 



BOOK THIRD 



79 



Lble to face an owl's, they still are dight 
Jy the blear-eyed nations in empurpled 

vests, 1 1 

Lnd crowns, and turbans. With unladen 

breasts, 
lave of blown self-applause, they proudly 

mount 
^o their spirit's perch, their being's high 

account, 
?heir tiptop nothings, their dull skies, their 

thrones — 
Lmid the fierce intoxicating tones 
)f trumpets, shoutings, and belabour'd 

drums, 
lnd sudden cannon. Ah ! how all this 

hums, 
n wakeful ears, like uproar past and 

gone — 
iike thunder-clouds that spake to Baby- 
lon, 20 
Lnd set those old Chaldeans to their 

tasks. — 
Ire then regalities all gilded masks ? 
fo, there are throned seats unscalable 
Jut by a patient wing, a constant spell, 
)r by ethereal things that, unconfined, 
3an make a ladder of the eternal wind, 
Lnd poise about in cloudy thunder-tents 
?o watch the abysm-birth of elements. 
Lye, 'bove the withering of old-lipp'd Fate 
L thousand Powers keep religious state, 30 
n water, fiery realm, and airy bourne ; 
Lnd, silent as a consecrated urn, 
lold spherey sessions for a season due. 
fet few of these far majesties, ah, few ! 
lave bared their operations to this globe — 
''ew, who with gorgeous pageantry enrobe 
)ur piece of heaven — whose benevolence 
Shakes hand with our own Ceres; every 

sense 
^'illing with spiritual sweets to plenitude, 
\.s bees gorge full their cells. And, by 

the feud 40 

Twixt Nothing and Creation, I here swear, 
Sterne Apollo ! that thy Sister fair 
^s of all these the gentlier-mightiest. 
iVhen thy gold breath is misting in the 

west, 



She unobserved steals unto her throne. 
And there she sits most meek and most 

alone ; 
As if she had not pomp subservient; 
As if thine eye, high Poet ! was not bent 
Towards her with the Muses in thine heart; 
As if the minist'ring stars kept not apart, 
Waiting for silver-footed messages. 51 

O Moon ! the oldest shades 'mong oldest 

trees 
Feel palpitations when thou lookest in: 
O Moon ! old boughs lisp forth a holier din 
The while they feel thine airy fellowship. 
Thou dost bless everywhere, with silver lip 
Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping 

kine, 
Couch'd in thy brightness, dream of fields 

divine : 
Innumerable mountains rise, and rise, 
Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes; 
And yet thy benediction passeth not 61 

One obscure hiding-place, one little spot 
Where pleasure may be sent: the nested 

wren 
Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken. 
And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf 
Takes glimpses of thee; thou art a relief 
To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps 
Within its pearly house. — The mighty 

deeps, 
The monstrous sea is thine — the myriad 

sea ! 
O Moon ! far-spooming Ocean bows to 

thee, 7f> 

And Tellus feels his forehead's cumbrous 

load. 

Cynthia ! where art thou now ? What 
far abode 
Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine 
Such utmost beauty ? Alas, thou dost pine 
For one as sorrowful: thy cheek is pale 
For one whose cheek is pale : thou dost be- 
wail 
His tears, who weeps for thee. Where dost 

thou sigh ? 
Ah ! surely that light peeps from Vesper's 
eye, 



8o 



ENDYMION 



Or what a thing is love ! 'Tis She, but lo! 

How changed, how full of ache, how gone 
in woe ! So 

She dies at the thinnest cloud; her loveli- 
ness 

Is wan on Neptune's blue : yet there 's a 
stress 

Of love-spangles, just off yon cape of trees, 

Dancing upon the waves, as if to please 

The curly foam with amorous influence. 

O, not so idle : for down-glancing thence, 

She fathoms eddies, and runs wild about 

O'erwhelming water-courses; scaring out 

The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and 
fright'ning 

Their savage eyes with unaccustom'd light- 
ning. 90 

Where will the splendour be content to 
reach ? 

O love ! how potent hast thou been to 
teach 

Strange journeyings ! Wherever beauty 
dwells. 

In gulf or aerie, mountains or deep dells, 

In light, in gloom, in star or blazing sun. 

Thou pointest out the way, and straight 't is 
won. 

Amid his toil thou gavest Leander breath; 

Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams 
of death; 

Thou madest Pluto bear thin element; 

And now, O winged Chieftain ! thou hast 
sent 100 

A moonbeam to the deep, deep water- 
world, 

To find Endymion. 

On gold sand impearl'd 
With lily shells, and pebbles milky white, 
Poor Cynthia greeted him, and soothed her 

light 
Against his pallid face: he felt the charm 
To breathlessness, and suddenly a warm 
Of his heart's blood: 't was very sweet; he 

stay'd 
His wandering steps, and half-entranced 

laid 
His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds. 



To taste the gentle moon, and freshening 
beads, no 

Lash'd from the crystal roof by fishes' 
tails. 

And so he kept, until the rosy veils 

Mantling the east, by Aurora's peering 
hand 

Were lifted from the water's breast, and 
fann'd 

Into sweet air; and sober'd morning came 

Meekly through billows: — when like taper- 
flame 

Left sudden by a dallying breath of air, 

He rose in silence, and once more 'gan fare 

Along his fated way. 

Far had he roam'd, 
With nothing save the hollow vast, that 

foam'd 120 

Above, around, and at his feet; save things 
More dead than Morpheus' imaginings: 
Old rusted anchors, helmets, breastplates 

large 



Of 



brazen beaks and 



gone sea-warriors ; 

targe; 
Rudders that for a hundred years had lost 
The sway of human hand ; gold vase em- 

boss'd 
With long-forgotten story, and wherein 
No reveller had ever dipp'd a chin 
But those of Saturn's vintage; mouldering 

scrolls, 
Writ in the tongue of heaven, by those 

souls 130 

Who first were on the earth ; and sculptures 

rude 
In ponderous stone, developing the mood 
Of ancient Nox ; — then skeletons of man. 
Of beast, behemoth, and leviathan. 
And elephant, and eagle, and huge jaw 
Of nameless monster. A cold leaden awe 
These secrets struck into him; and unless 
Dian had chased away that heaviness. 
He might have died : but now, with cheered 

feel, 
He onward kept; wooing these thoughts to 

steal 140 

About the labyrinth in his soul of love. 



BOOK THIRD 



8i 



•What is there in thee, Moon ! that 

thou shouldst move 
My heart so potently ? When yet a child 
[ oft have dried my tears when thou hast 

smiled, 
rhou seem'dst my sister: hand in hand we 

went 
From eve to morn across the firmament. 
STo apples would I gather from the tree, 
fill thou hadst cool'd their cheeks de- 

liciously: 
Ho tumbling water ever spake romance, 
3ut when my eyes with thine thereon could 

dance: 150 

^o woods Avere green enough, no bower 

divine, 
Jntil thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine: 
in sowing-time ne'er would I dibble take, 
)r drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake; 
^nd, in the summer tide of blossoming, 
'^o one but thee hath heard me blithely sing 
\nd mesh my dewy flowers all the night. 
Ho melody was like a passing spright 
.f it went not to solemnize thy reign, 
fes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain 160 
iy thee were fashion'd to the self-same end ; 
Ind as I grew in years, still didst thou 

blend 
Vith all my ardours; thou wast the deep 

glen; 
?hou wast the mountain-top — the sage's 

pen — 
?he poet's harp — the voice of friends — 

the sun; 
thou wast the river — thou wast glory 

won; 
Chou wast my clarion's blast — thou wast 

my steed — 
tly goblet full of wine — my topmost 

deed: — 
Chou wast the charm of women, lovely 

Moon ! 

) what a wild and harmonized tune 170 
kly spirit struck from all the beautiful ! 
3n some bright essence could I lean, and 

lull 

Myself to immortality: I prest 
!Tature's soft pillow in a wakeful rest. 



But gentle Orb ! there came a nearer bliss — 
My strange love came — Felicity's abyss ! 
She came, and thou didst fade, and fade 

away — 
Yet not entirely; no, thy starry sway 
Has been an under-passion to this hour. 
Now I begin to feel thine orby power 180 
Is coming fresh upon me: O be kind. 
Keep back thine influence, and do not blind 
My sovereign vision. — Dearest love, for- 
give 
That I can think away from thee and live ! — 
Pardon me, airy planet, that I prize 
One thought beyond thine argent luxuries ! 
How far beyond ! ' At this a surprised 

start 
Frosted the springing verdure of his heart; 
For as he lifted up his eyes to swear 
How his own goddess was past all things 

fair, 190 

He saw far in the concave green of the sea 
An old man sitting calm and peacefully. 
Upon a weeded rock this old man sat. 
And his white hair was awful, and a mat 
Of weeds were cold beneath his cold thin 

feet; 
And, ample as the largest winding-sheet, 
A cloak of blue wrapp'd up his aged bones, 
O'erwrought with symbols by the deepest 

groans 
Of ambitiovis magic: every ocean-form 
Was woven in with black distinctness; 

storm, 200 

And calm, and whispering, and hideous roar 
Quicksand, and whirlpool, and deserted 

shore 
Were emblem'd in the woof; with every 

shape 
That skims, or dives, or sleeps, 'twixt cape 

and cape. 
The gulphing whale was like a dot in the 

spell. 
Yet look upon it, and 't would size and 

swell 
To its huge self; and the minutest fish 
Would pass the very hardest gazer's wish, 
And show his little eye's anatomy. 
Then there was pictured the regality 2 10 



82 



ENDYMION 



Of Neptune; and the sea-nymphs round 

his state, 
In beauteous vassalage, look up and wait. 
Beside this old man lay a pearly wand, 
And in his lap a book, the which he conu'd 
So steadfastly, that the new denizen 
Had time to keep him in amazed ken. 
To mark these shadowings, and stand in 



The old man raised his hoary head and 

saw 
The wilder'd stranger — seeming not to 

see, 
His features were so lifeless. Suddenly 220 
He woke as from a trance ; his snow-white 

brows 
Went arching up, and like two magic 

ploughs 
Furrow'd deep wrinkles in his forehead 

large, 
Which kept as fixedly as rocky marge, 
Till round his wither'd lips had gone a 

smile. 
Then up he rose, like one whose tedious toil 
Had watch'd for years in forlorn hermitage, 
Who had not from mid-life to utmost age 
Eased in one accent his o'erburden'd soul. 
Even to the trees. He rose: he grasp'd 

his stole, 230 

With convulsed clenches waving it abroad, 
And in a voice of solemn joy, that awed 
Echo into oblivion, he said: — 

' Thou art the man ! Now shall I lay 

my head 
In peace upon my watery pillow: now 
Sleep will come smoothly to my weary 

brow. 
O Jove ! I shall be young again, be young ! 
O shell-borne Neptune, I am pierced and 

stung 
With new-born life ! What shall I do ? 

Where go, 
When I have cast this serpent-skin of 

woe ? — 240 

I'll swim to the sirens, and one moment 

listen 



Their melodies, and see their long hair 

glisten ; 
Anon upon that giant's arm I '11 be, 
That writhes about the roots of Sicily: 
To northern seas I '11 in a twinkling sail. 
And mount upon the snortings of a whale 
To some black cloud ; thence down I '11 

madly sweep 
On forked lightning, to the deepest deep. 
Where through some sucking pool I will 

be hurl'd 
With rapture to the other side of the 

world ! 250 

O, I am full of gladness ! Sisters three, 
I bow full-hearted to your old decree ! 
Yes, every god be thank'd, and power be- 
nign, ^ 
For I no more shall wither, droop, and pine.j, 
Thou art the man!' Endymion started- 
"^ back 
Dismay'd ; and, like a wretch from whom 1 

the rack 
Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony, 
Mutter'd: ' What lonely death am I to diet: 
In this cold region ? Will he let me freeze, 
And float my brittle limbs o'er polar seas ? 
Or will he touch me with his searing hand, 
And leave a black memorial on the sand ? 
Or tear me piecemeal with a bony saw, 263 
And keep me as a chosen food to draw 
His magian fish through hated fire and 

flame ? 
O misery of hell ! resistless, tame, 
Am I to be burnt up ? No, I will shout. 
Until the gods through heaven's blue look 

out ! — 
O Tartarus ! but some few days agone 
Her soft arms were entwining me, and on 
Her voice I hung like fruit among greer 

leaves: 27; 

Her lips were all my own, and — ah, ripr 

sheaves 
Of happiness ! ye on the stubble droop. 
But never may be garner'd. I must stoop 
My head, and kiss death's foot. Love 

love, farewell ! 
Is there no hope from thee ? This horri( 

spell 



BOOK THIRD 



83 



Would melt at thy sweet breath. — By 

Dian's hind 
Feeding from her white fingers, on the 

wind 
I see thy streaming hair ! and now, by 

Pan, 
I care not for this old mysterious man ! ' 280 

He spake, and walking to that aged form, 
Look'd high defiance. Lo ! his heart 'gan 

warm 
With pity, for the gray-hair'd creature 

wept. 
Had he then wrong'd a heart where sorrow 

kept? 
Had he, though blindly contumelious, 

brought 
Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to human 

thought, 
Convulsion to a mouth of many years ? 
He had in truth; and he was ripe for tears. 
The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt 
Before that care-worn sage, who trembling 

felt 290 

About his large dark locks, and faltering 

spake : 

' Arise, good youth, for sacred Phoebus' 
sake ! 
I know thine inmost bosom, and I feel 
A very brother's yearning for thee steal 
Into mine own: for why ? thou openest 
The prison gates that have so long opprest 
My weary watching. Though thou know'st 
1 it not, 

[Thou art commission'd to this fated spot 
iFor great enfranchisement. O weep no 

more ! 
:I am a friend to love, to loves of yore: 300 
Aye, hadst thou never loved an unknown 

power, 
I had been grieving at this joyous hour. 
But even now most miserable old, 
I saw thee, and my blood no longer cold 
Gave mighty pulses: in this tottering case 
Grew a new heart, which at this moment 

plays 
As dancingly as thine. Be not afraid, 



For thou shalt hear this secret all display'd, 
Now as we speed towards our joyous task.' 

So saying, this young soul in age's 

mask 3 10 

Went forward with the Carian side by side: 

Resuming quickly thus; while ocean's tide 

Hung swollen at their backs, and jewell'd 

sands 
Took silently their foot-prints. 

' My soul stands 
Now past the midway from mortality, 
And so I can prepare without a sigh 
To tell thee briefly all my joy and pain. 
I was a fisher once, upon this main. 
And my boat danced in every creek and bay; 
Rough billows were my home by night and 

day, — 3=0 

The sea-gulls not more constant; for I had 
No housing from the storm and tempests 

mad, 
But hollow rocks, — and they were palaces 
Of silent happiness, of slumberous ease: 
Long years of misery have told me so. 
Aye, thus it was one thousand years ago. 
One thousand years ! — Is it then possible 
To look so plainly through them ? to dispel 
A thousand years with backward glance 

sublime ? 
To breathe away as 'twere all scummy 

slime 330 

From off a crystal pool, to see its deep. 
And one's own image from the bottom 

peep ? 
Yes: now I am no longer wretched thrall, 
My long captivity and moanings all 
Are but a slime, a thin-pervading scum. 
The which I breathe away, and thronging 

come 
Like things of yesterday my youthful plea- 



' I touch'd no lute, I sang not, trod no 

measures : 
I was a lonely youth on desert shores. 
My sports were lonely, 'mid continuous 

roars, 340 



84 



ENDYMION 



And craggy isles, and sea-mew's plaintive 

cry 
Plaining discrepant between sea and sky. 
Dolphins were still my playmates; shapes 

unseen 
Would let me feel their scales of gold and 

green, 
Nor be my desolation; and, full oft, 
When a dread waterspout had rear'd aloft 
Its hungry hugeness, seeming ready ripe 
To burst with hoarsest thunderings, and 

wipe 
My life away like a vast sponge of fate, 349 
Some friendly monster, pitying my sad 

state, 
Has dived to its foundations, gulf 'd it down, 
And left me tossing safely. But the crown 
Of all my life was utmost quietude : 
More did I love to lie in cavern rude, 
Keeping in wait whole days for Neptune's 

voice, 
And if it came at last, hark, and rejoice ! 
There blush'd no summer eve but I would 

steer 
My skiff along green shelving coasts, to hear 
The shepherd's pipe come clear from aery 

steep. 
Mingled with ceaseless bleatings of his 

sheep: 360 

And never was a day of summer shine, 
But I beheld its birth upon the brine: 
For I would watch all night to see unfold 
Heaven's gates, and ^thon snort his morn- 
ing gold 
Wide o'er the swelling streams: and con- 
stantly 
At brim of day-tide, on some grassy lea, 
My nets would be spread out, and I at rest. 
The poor folk of the sea-country I blest 
With daily boon of fish most delicate: 
They knew not whence this bounty, and 

elate 370 

Would strew sweet flowers on a sterile 

beach. 

* Why was I not contented ? Wherefore 
reach 
At things which, but for thee, O Latmian ! 



Had been my dreary death ? Fool ! I began 
To feel distemper'd longings: to desire 
The utmost privilege that ocean's sire 
Could grant in benediction : to be free 
Of all his kingdom. Long in misery 
I wasted, ere in one extremist fit 379 

I plunged for life or death. To interknit 
One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff 
Might seem a work of pain; so not enough 
Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt. 
And buoyant round my limbs. At first I 

dwelt 
Whole days and days in sheer astonishment; 
Forgetful utterly of self-intent; 
Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow. 
Then, like a new-fledged bird that first doth 

show 
His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill, 
I tried in fear the pinions of my will. 390 
'T was freedom ! and at once I visited 
The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed. 
No need to tell thee of them, for I see 
That thou hast been a witness — it must be 
For these I know thou canst not feel a 

drouth. 
By the melancholy corners of that mouth. 
So I will in my story straightway pass 
To more immediate matter. Woe, alas ! 
That love should be my bane ! Ah, Scylla 

fair ! 
Why did poor Glaucus ever — ever dare 400 
To sue thee to his heart ? Kind stranger- 
youth ! 
I loved her to the very white of truth. 
And she would not conceive it. Timid 

thing ! 
She fled me swift as sea-bird on the wing. 
Round every isle, and point, and promon- 
tory, 
From where large Hercules wound up his 

story 
Far as Egyptian Nile. My passion grew 
The more, the more I saw her dainty hue 
Gleam delicately through the azure clear: 
Until 't was too fierce agony to bear; 410 
And in that agony, across my grief 
It flash'd, that Circe might find some re- 
lief— 



BOOK THIRD 



85 



Cruel enchantress ! So above the water 
I rear'd my head, and look'd for Phoebus' 

daughter. 

^sea's isle was wondering at the moon : — 
It seem'd to whirl around me, and a swoon 
Left me dead-drifting to that fatal power. 

*' When I awoke, 't was in a twilight 

bower; 
Just when the light of morn, with hum of 

bees, 
Stole through its verdurous matting of 

fresh trees. 420 

How sweet, and sweeter ! for I heard a 

lyre. 
And over it a sighing voice expire. 
It ceased — I caught light footsteps ; and 

anon 

The fairest face that morn e'er look'd upon 
Push'd through a screen of roses. Starry 

Jove ! 
[With tears, and smiles, and honey-words 

she wove 
[A net whose thraldom was more bliss than 

all 
[The range of flower'd Elysium. Thus did 

fall 
The dew of her rich speech: "Ah ! art 

awake ? 

let me hear thee speak, for Cupid's 
sake ! 430 

1 am so oppress'd with joy ! Why, I have 
shed 

An urn of tears, as though thou wert cold 

dead ; 
JAnd now I find thee living, I will pour 
;From these devoted eyes their silver store, 
.Until exhausted of the latest drop, 
[So it will pleasure thee, and force thee 

stop 
Here, that I too may live: but if beyond 
Such cool and sorrowful offerings, thou art 
I fond 

Of soothing warmth, of dalliance supreme ; 
If thou art ripe to taste a long love-dream ; 
jif smiles, if dimples, tongues for ardour 
I mute, 441 

Hang in thy vision like a tempting fruit. 



let me pluck it for thee ! " Thus she 

link'd 
Her charming syllables, till indistinct 
Their music came to my o'er-sweeten'd 

soul; 
And then she hover'd over me, and stole 
So near, that if no nearer it had been 
This f urrow'd visage thou hadst never seen. 

' Young man of Latmos ! thus particu- 
lar 

Am I, that thou may'st plainly see how 
far 450 

This fierce temptation went: and thou 
may'st not 

Exclaim, How, then, was Scylla quite for- 
got ? 

' Who could resist ? Who in this uni- 
verse ? 
She did so breathe ambrosia; so immerse 
My fine existence in a golden clime. 
She took me like a child of suckling time. 
And cradled me in roses. Thus con- 

demn'd. 
The current of my former life was stemm'd. 
And to this arbitrary queen of sense 

1 bow'd a tranced vassal: nor would thence 
Have moved, even though Amphion's harp 

had woo'd 461 

Me back to Scylla o'er the billows rude. 
For as Apollo each eve doth devise 
A new apparelling for western skies; 
So every eve, nay, every spendthrift hour 
Shed balmy consciousness within that 

bower. 
And I was free of haunts umbrageous; 
Could wander in the mazy forest-house 
Of squirrels, foxes shy, and antler'd deer, 
And birds from coverts innermost and 
drear 470 

Warbling for very joy mellifluous sor- 
row — 
To me new-born delights ! 

' Now let me borrow. 
For moments few, a temperament as stern 
As Pluto's sceptre, that my words not burn 



86 



ENDYMION 



These uttering lips, while I in calm speech 
tell 



How specious 
hell. 



tell 

heaven was changed to real 



'One morn she left me sleeping: half 

awake 
I sought for her smooth arms and lips, to 

slake 
My greedy thirst with nectarbus camel- 
draughts; 
But she was gone. Whereat the barbed 

shafts 480 

Of disappointment stuck in me so sore. 
That out I ran and search'd the forest o'er. 
Wandering about in pine and cedar gloom 
Damp awe assail'd me; for there 'gan to 

boom 
A sound of moan, an agony of sound. 
Sepulchral from the distance all around. 
Then came a conquering earth-thunder, and 

rumbled 
That fierce complain to silence: while I 

stumbled 
Down a precipitous path, as if impell'd. 
I came to a dark valley. — Groanings 

swell'd 490 

Poisonous about my ears, and louder grew, 
The nearer I approach'd a flame's gaunt 

blue. 
That glared before me through a thorny 

brake. 
This fire, like the eye of gordian snake, 
Bewitch'd me towards; and I soon was 

near 
A sight too fearful for the feel of fear: 
In thicket hid I cursed the haggard scene — 
The banquet of my arms, my arbour queen, 
Seated upon an uptoru forest root; 
And all around her shapes, wizard and 

brute, 500 

Laughing, and wailing, grovelling, serpent- 

ing, 
Showing tooth, tusk, and venom-bag, and 

sting ! 
O such deformities ! old Charon's self. 
Should he give up awhile his penny pelf. 
And take a dream 'mong rushes Stygian, 



It could not be so fantasied. Fierce, wan, 
And tyrannizing was the lady's look, 
As over them a gnarled staff she shook. 
Ofttimes upon the sudden she laugh'd out, 
And from a basket emptied to the rout 510 
Clusters of grapes, the which they raven'd 

quick 
And roar'd for more; with many a hungry 

lick 
About their shaggy jaws. Avenging, slow, 
Anon she took a branch of mistletoe, 
And emptied on 't a black dull-gurgling 

phial: 
Groan'd one and all, as if some piercing 

trial 
Was sharpening for their pitiable bones. 
She lifted up the charm: appealing groans 
From their poor breasts went sueing to her 

ear 
In vain; remorseless as an infant's bier 520 
She whisk'd against their eyes the sooty 

oil. 
Whereat was heard a noise of painful toil. 
Increasing gradual to a tempest rage. 
Shrieks, yells, and groans of torture-pil- 
grimage ; 
Until their grieved bodies 'gan to bloat 
And puff from the tail's end to stifled 

throat: 
Then was appalling silence: then a sight 
More wildering than all that hoarse af- 
fright ; 
For the whole herd, as by a whirlwind 

writhen, 
Went through the dismal air like one huge 

Python 530 

Antagonizing Boreas, — and so vanish 'd. 
Yet there was not a breath of wind: she 

banish'd 
These phantoms with a nod. Lo ! from the 

dark 
Came waggish fauns, and nymphs, and 

satyrs stark. 
With dancing and loud revelry, — and went 
Swifter than centaurs after rapine bent. — 
Sighing an elephant appear'd and bow'd 
Before the fierce witch, speaking thus aloud 
In human accent: " Potent goddess ! chief 



BOOK THIRD 



87 



Of pains resistless ! make my beiug brief, 
Or let me from this heavy prison fly: 541 
Or give me to the air, or let me die ! 
I sue not for my happy crown again; 
I sue not for my phalanx on the plain; 
I sue not for my lone, my widow'd wife: 
I sue not for my ruddy drops of life. 
My children fair, my lovely girls and boys ! 
I will forget them ; I will pass these joys ; 
Ask nought so heavenward, so too — too 

high: 

Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die, 550 

Or be deliver'd from this cumbrous flesh. 
From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh. 
And merely given to the cold bleak air. 
Have mercy, Goddess ! Circe, feel my 

prayer ! " 

'That curst magician's name fell icy numb 
Upon my wild conjecturing: truth had 

come 
Naked and sabre-like against my heart. 
I saw a fury whetting a death-dart; 
And my slain spirit, overwrought with 

fright. 
Fainted away in that dark lair of night. 560 
Think, my deliverer, how desolate 
My waking must have been ! disgust, and 
[ hate, 

I And terrors manifold divided me 
I A spoil amongst them. I prepared to flee 
I Into the dungeon core of that wild wood : 
I fled three days — when lo ! before me 

stood 
Glaring the angry witch. O Dis, even now, 
A clammy dew is beading on my brow, 
At mere remembering her pale laugh, and 

curse. 
" Ha ! ha ! Sir Dainty ! there must be a 

nurse 570 

Made of rose-leaves and thistle-down, ex- 
press. 
To cradle thee my sweet, and lull thee: 

yes, 
I am too flinty-hard for thy nice touch: 
My tenderest squeeze is but a giant's clutch. 
So, fairy-thing, it shall have lullabies 
Unheard of yet; and it shall still its cries 



Upon some breast more lily-feminine. 

Oh, no — it shall not pine, and pine, and 

pine 
More than one pretty, trifling thousand 

years; 
And then 't were pity, but fate's gentle 

shears 580 

Cut short its immortality. Sea-flirt ! 
Young dove of the waters ! truly I '11 not 

hurt 
One hair of thine: see how I weep and sigh, 
That our heart-broken parting is so nigh. 
And must we part ? Ah, yes, it must be so. 
Yet ere thou leavest me in utter woe. 
Let me sob over thee my last adieus. 
And speak a blessing: Mark me ! thou hast 

thews 
Immortal, for thou art of heavenly race: 
But such a love is mine, that here I chase 
Eternally away from thee all bloom 591 
Of youth, and destine thee towards a tomb. 
Hence shalt thou quickly to the watery 

vast; 
And there, ere many days be overpast. 
Disabled age shall seize thee; and even 

then 
Thou shalt not go the way of aged men ; 
But live and wither, cripple and still breathe 
Ten hundred years : which gone, I then be- 
queath 
Thy fragile bones to unknown burial. 
Adieu, sweet love, adieu ! " — As shot stars 

fall, 600 

She fled ere I could groan for mercy. 

Stung 
And poisoned was my spirit: despair sung 
A war-song of defiance 'gainst all hell. 
A hand was at my shoulder to compel 
My sullen steps; another 'fore my eyes 
Moved on with pointed finger. In this 

giiise 
Enforced, at the last by ocean's foam 
I found me; by my fresh, my native home. 
Its tempering coolness, to my life akin. 
Came salutary as 1 waded in; 610 

And, with a blind voluptuous rage, I gave 
Battle to the swollen billow-ridge, and 

drave 



88 



ENDYMION 



Large froth before me, while there yet 
remaiu'd 

Hale strength, nor from my bones all mar- 
row drain'd. 

* Young lover, I must weep — such hell- 
ish spite 

With dry cheek who can tell? While 
thus my might 

Proving upon this element, dismay'd. 

Upon a dead thing's face my hand I laid; 

I look'd — 't was Scylla ! Cursed, cursed 
Circe ! 

vulture-witch, hast never heard of mercy ? 
Could not thy harshest vengeance be con- 
tent, 621 

But thou must nip this tender innocent 

Because I loved her ? ^- Cold, O cold in- 
deed 

Were her fair limbs, and like a common 
weed 

The sea-swell took her hair. Dead as she 
was 

1 clung about her waist, nor ceased to pass 
Fleet as an arrow through unfathom'd 

brine, 

Until there shone a fabric crystalline, 

Ribb'd and inlaid with coral, pebble, and 
pearl. 

Headlong I darted ; at one eager swirl 630 

Gain'd its bright portal, enter'd, and be- 
hold ! 

'T was vast, and desolate, and icy-cold ; 

And all around — But wherefore this to 
thee 

Who in few minutes more thyself shalt 
see ? — 

I left poor Scylla in a niche and fled. 

My fever'd parchiugs up, my scathing 
dread 

Met palsy half way: soon these limbs be- 
came 

Gaunt, wither'd, sapless, feeble, cramp'd, 
and lame. 

' Now let me pass a cruel, cruel space, 
Without one hope, without one faintest 
trace 640 



Of mitigation, or redeeming bubble 

Of colour' d phantasy: for I fear 'twould 

trouble 
Thy brain to loss of reason: and next tell 
How a restoring chance came down to quell 
One half of the witch in me. 

' On a day, 
Sitting upon a rock above the spray, 
I saw grow up from the horizon's brink 
A gallant vessel : soon she seem'd to sink 
Away from me again, as though her course 
Had been resumed in spite of hindering 
force — 650 

So vanish'd: and not long, before arose 
Dark clouds, and muttering of winds mo- 
rose. 
Old JEolus would stifle his mad spleen, 
But could not; therefore, all the billows 

green 
Toss'd up the silver spume against the 

clouds. 
The tempest came: I saw that vessel's 

shrouds 
In perilous bustle; while upon the deck 
Stood trembling creatures. I beheld the 

wreck; 
The final gulfing; the poor struggling souls; 
I heard their cries amid loud thunder- 
rolls. 660 

they had all been saved but crazed eld 
Aunull'd my vigorous cravings; and thus 

quell'd 
And curb'd, think on 't, O Latmian ! did I 

sit 
Writhing with pity, and a cursing fit 
Against that hell-born Circe. The crew 

had gone. 
By one and one, to pale oblivion; 
And I was gazing on the surges prone. 
With many a scalding tear, and many a 

groan. 
When at my feet emerged an old man's 

hand, 
Grasping this scroll, and this same slender 

wand. 670 

1 knelt with pain — reach'd out my hand 

— had grasp'd 



i 



BOOK THIRD 



89 



These treasures — toucli'd the knuckles — 

they unclasp'd — 
I caught a finger: but the downward weight 
O'erpower'd me — it sank. Then 'gan 

abate 
The storm, and through chill aguish gloom 

outburst 
The comfortable sun. I was athirst 
To search the book, and in the warming 

air 
Parted its dripping leaves with eager care. 
! Strange Tuatters did it treat of, and drew 

on 
My soul page after page, till well nigh 

won 6S0 

: Into forge tfulness; when, stupefied, 
I read these words, and read again, and 

tried 
My eyes against the heavens, and read 

again. 
.0 what a load of misery and pain 
Each Atlas-line bore off ! — a shine of hope 
Came gold around me, cheering me to 

cope 
Strenuous with hellish tyranny. Attend ! 
For thou hast brought their promise to an 

end.' 

In the wide sea there lives a forlorn wretch, 
Doomed with enfeebled carcase to outstretch 690 
His loathed existence through ten centuries. 
And then to die alone. Who can devise 
A total opposition ? No one. So 
One million times ocean must ebh and flow, 
And he oppressed. Yet he shall not die, 
These things accomplish' d : — If he utterly 
Scans all the depths of magic, and expounds 
The meanings of all motions, shapes, and 

sounds ■ 
If he explores all forms and substances 
Straight homeward to their symbol-essences ; 
He shall not die. Moreover, and in chief, 701 
He must pursue this task of joy and grief 
Most piously ; — all lovers tempest-tost. 
And in the savage overwhelming lost. 
He shall deposit side by side, until 
Time's creeping shall the dreary space fulfil: 
Which done, and all these labours ripened. 



A youth, by heavenly power loved and led. 
Shall stand before him • whom he shall direct 
How to consummate all. The youth elect 710 
Must do the thing, or both will be de- 
stroyed. — 

' Then,' cried the young Endymion, over- 

joy'd, 

' We are twin brothers in this destiny ! 

Say, I entreat thee, what achievement high 

Is, in this restless world, for me reserved. 

What ! if from thee my wandering feet 
had swerved, 

Had we both perish'd ? ' — ' Look ! ' the 
sage replied, 

' Dost thou not mark a gleaming through 
the tide, 

Of divers brilliances ? 't is the edifice 

I told thee of, where lovely Scylla lies; 720 

And where I have enshrined piously 

All lovers, whom fell storms have doom'd 
to die 

Throughout my bondage.' Thus discours- 
ing, on 

They went till unobscured the porches 
shone ; 

Which hurryingly they gain'd, and euter'd 
straight. 

Sure never since king Neptune held his 
state 

Was seen such wonder underneath the 
stars. 

Turn to some level plain where haughty 
Mars 

Has legion'd all his battle; and behold 

How every soldier, with firm foot, doth 
hold 730 

His even breast: see, many steeled squares, 

And rigid ranks of iron — whence who 
dares 

One step ? Imagine further, line by line. 

These warrior thousands on the field su- 
pine : — 

So in that crystal place, in silent rows. 

Poor lovers lay at rest from joys and 
woes. — 

The stranger from the mountains, breath- 
less, traced 



9° 



ENDYMION 



Such thousands of shut eyes in order 
placed; 

Such ranges of white feet, and patient lips 

All ruddy, — for here death no blossom 
nips. 740 

He mark'd their brows and foreheads; saw 
their hair 

Put sleekly on one side with nicest care; 

And each one's gentle wrists, with rever- 
ence, 

Put cross-wise to its heart. 

' Let us commence,' 
Whisper'd the guide, stuttering with joy, 

' even now.' 
He spake, and, trembling like an aspen- 
bough. 
Began to tear his scroll in pieces small, 
Uttering the while some mumblings fu- 
neral. 
He tore it into pieces small as snow 
That drifts unfeather'd when bleak north- 
erns blow; 750 
And having done it, took his dark blue 

cloak 
And bound it round Endymion : then struck 
His wand against the empty air times 

nine. — 
' What more there is to do, young man, is 

thine : 
But first a little patience ; first undo 
This tangled thread, and wind it to a clue. 
Ah, gentle ! 't is as weak as spider's skein; 
And shouldst thou break it — What, is it 

done so clean ? 
A power overshadows thee ! Oh, brave ! 
The spite of hell is tumbling to its grave. 
Here is a shell; 'tis pearly blank to me, 761 
Nor mark'd with any sign or charactery — 
Canst thou read aught ? O read for pity's 

sake ! 
Olympus ! we are safe ! Now, Carian, 

break 
This wand against yon lyre on the pedes- 
tal.' 

'T was done : and straight with sudden 
swell and fall 



Sweet music breathed her soul away, and 

sigh'd 
A lullaby to silence. — * Youth ! now strew 
These minced leaves on me, and passing 

through 
Those files of dead, scatter the same 
around, 770 

And thou wilt see the issue.' — 'Mid the 

sound 
Of flutes and viols, ravishing his heart, 
Endymion from Glaucus stood apart. 
And scatter'd in his face some fragments 

light. 
How lightning-swift the change ! a youth- 
ful wight 
Smiling beneath a coral diadem, 
Out-sparkling sudden like an upturn'd gem, 
Appear'd, and, stepping to a beauteous 

corse, 
Kneel'd down beside it, and with tenderest 

force 
Press'd its cold hand, and wept, — and 
Scylla sigh'd ! 7S0 

Endymion, with quick hand, the charm ap- 
plied — 
The nymph arose: he left them to their joy. 
And onward went upon his high employ. 
Showering those powerful fragments on 

the dead. 
And, as he pass'd, each lifted up its head. 
As doth a flower at Apollo's touch. 
Death felt it to his inwards: 'twas too 

much: 
Death fell a-weeping in his charnel-house. 
The Latmian persevered along, and thus 
All were reanimated. There arose 790 

A noise of harmony, pulses and throes 
Of gladness in the air — while many, who 
Had died in mutual arms devout and true. 
Sprang to each other madly; and the rest 
Felt a high certainty of being blest. 
They gazed upon Endymion. Enchant- 
ment 
Grew drunken, and would have its head 

and bent. 
Delicious symphonies, like airy flowers, 
Budded, and swell'd, and, full-blown, shed 
full showers 



BOOK THIRD 



91 



Of light, soft, unseen leaves of sounds 
divine. 800 

The two deliverers tasted a pure wine 
Of happiness, from fairy press oozed out. 
Speechless they eyed each other, and about 
The fair assembly wandered to and fro, 
Distracted with the richest overflow 
Of joy that ever pour'd from heaven. 

' Away ! ' 

Shouted the new born god; 'Follow, and 

pay 

Our piety to Neptunus supreme ! ' — 
Then Scylla, blushing sweetly from her 

dream. 
They led on first, bent to her meek sur- 
prise, Sio 
Through portal columns of a giant size 
Into the vaulted, boundless emerald. 
Joyous all follow'd, as the leader call'd, 
Down marble steps; pouring as easily 
As hour-glass sand — and fast, as you 

might see 
Swallows obeying the south summer's call. 
Or swans upon a gentle waterfall. 

Thus went that beautiful multitude, nor 
far, 
Ere from among some rocks of glittering 
spar, 8 19 

Just within ken, they saw descending thick 
Another multitude. Whereat more quick 
Moved either host. On a wide sand they 

met. 
And of those numbers every eye was wet; 
For each their old love found. A mur- 
muring rose, 
Like what was never heard in all the 

throes 
Of wind and waters: 'tis past human wit 
To tell; 't is dizziness to think of it. 

This mighty consummation made, the 

host 
Moved on for many a league; and gain'd 

and lost 
Huge sea-marks; van ward swelling in 

array, 830 



And from the rear diminishing away, — 
Till a faint dawn surprised them. Glaucus 

cried, 
' Behold ! behold, the palace of his pride ! 
God Neptune's palaces.' With noise in- 
creased, 
They shoulder'd on towards that brighten- 
ing east. 
At every onward step proud domes arose 
In prospect, — diamond gleams and golden 

glows 
Of amber 'gainst their faces levelling. 
Joyous, and many as the leaves in spring. 
Still onward; still the splendour gradual 
swell'd. 840 

Rich opal domes were seen, on high upheld 
By jasper pillars, letting through their 

shafts 
A blush of coral. Copious wonder-draughts 
Each gazer drank; and deeper drank more 

near: 
For what poor mortals fragment up, as 

mere 
As marble was there lavish, to the vast 
Of one fair palace, that far, far surpass'd. 
Even for common bulk, those olden three, 
Memphis, and Babylon, and Nineveh. 

As large, as bright, as colour'd as the 

bow 850 

Of Iris, when unfading it doth show 
Beyond a silvery shower, was the arch 
Through which this Paphian army took its 

march. 
Into the outer courts of Neptune's state : 
Whence could be seen, direct, a golden 

gate. 
To which the leaders sped; but not half 

raught 
Ere it burst open swift as fairy thought, 
And made those dazzled thousands veil 

their eyes 
Like callow eagles at the first sunrise. 
Soon with an eagle nativeness their gaze 860 
Ripe from hue-golden swoons took all the 

blaze, 
And then, behold ! large Neptune on his 

throne 



92 



ENDYMION 



Of emerald deep: yet not exalt alone; 

At his right hand stood winged Love, and on 

His left sat smiling Beauty's paragon. 

Far as the mariner on highest mast 
Can see all round upon the calmed vast, 
So wide was Neptune's hall : and as the blue 
Doth vault the waters, so the waters drew 
Their doming curtains, high, magnificent, S70 
Awed from the throne aloof; — and when 

storm rent 
Disclosed the thunder-gloomings in Jove's 

air; 
But soothed as now, flash'd sudden every- 
where. 
Noiseless, sub-marine cloudlets, glittering 
Death to a human eye : for there did spring 
From natural west, and east, and south, and 

north, 
A light as of four sunsets, blazing forth 
A gold-green zenith 'bove the Sea-God's 

head. 
Of lucid depth the floor, and far outspread 
As breezeless lake, on which the slim 

canoe sso 

Of f eather'd Indian darts about, as through 
The delicatest air: air verily. 
But for the portraiture of clouds and sky : 
This palace floor breath-air, — but for the 

amaze 
Of deep-seen wonders motionless, — and 

blaze 
Of the dome pomp, reflected in extremes. 
Globing a golden sphere. 

They stood in dreams 

Till Triton blew his horn. The palace rang ; 

The Nereids danced; the Sirens faintly 
sang; 

And the great Sea-King bow'd his dripping 
head. 890 

Then Love took wing, and from his pinions 
shed 

On all the multitude a nectarous dew. 

The ooze-born Goddess beckoned and drew 

Fair Scylla and her guides to conference; 

And when they reach'd the throned emi- 
nence 



She kiss'd the sea-nymph's cheek, — who 

sat her down 
A-toying with the doves. Then, — ' Mighty 

crown 
And sceptre of this kingdom ! ' Venus 

said, 
' Thy vows were on a time to Nais paid: 
Behold ! ' — Two copious tear-drops instant 

fell 900 

From the God's large eyes; he smiled de- 
lectable. 
And over Glaucus held his blessing hands. — 
' Endymion ! Ah ! still wandering in the 

bands 
Of love ? Now this is cruel. Since the 

hour 
I met thee in earth's bosom, all my power 
Have I put forth to serve thee. What, not 

yet 
Escaped from dull mortality's harsh net ? 
A little patience, youth ! 't will not be long. 
Or I am skilless quite : an idle tongue, 
A humid eye, and steps luxurious, gio 

Where these are new and strange, are 

ominous. 
Aye, I have seen these signs in one of 

heaven. 
When others were all blind; and were I 

given 
To utter secrets, haply I might say 
Some pleasant words : — but Love will have 

his day. 
So wait awhile expectant. Pr'ythee soon. 
Even in the passing of thine honey-moon, 
Visit thou my Cytherea: thou wilt find 
Cupid well-natured, my Adonis kind; 
And pray persuade with thee — Ah, I have 

done, 920 

All blisses be upon thee, my sweet son ! ' — 
Thus the fair goddess : while Endymion 
Knelt to receive those accents halcyon. 

Meantime a glorious revelry began 
Before the Water-Monarch. Nectar ran 
In courteous fountains to all cups out- 
reach' d; 
And plunder'd vines, teeming exhaustless, 
pleach'd 



BOOK THIRD 



93 



New growth about each shell aud pendent 

lyre; 
The which, in disentangling for their fire, 
Pull'd down fresh foliage and coverture 930 
For dainty toying. Cupid, empire-sure, 
Flutter'd and laugh 'd, and oft-times through 

the throng 
Made a delighted way. Then dance, and 

song. 
And garlanding, grew wild; and pleasure 

reign'd. 
In harmless tendril they each other chain'd, 
And strove who should be smother' d deep- 
est in 
Fresh crush of leaves. 

O 't is a very sin 
For one so weak to venture his poor verse 
In such a place as this. O do not curse, 939 
High Muses ! let him hurry to the ending. 

All suddenly were silent. A soft blend- 
ing 
Of dulcet instruments came charmingly; 
And then a hymn. 

' King of the stormy sea ! 
Brother of Jove, and co-inheritor 
Of elements ! Eternally before 
Thee the waves awful bow. Fast, stubborn 

rock, 
At thy f ear'd trident shrinking, doth unlock 
Its deep foundations, hissing into foam. 
All mouutain-rivers, lost in the wide home 
Of thy capacious bosom, ever flow. 950 

Thou frownest, and old ^olus thy foe 
Skulks to his cavern, 'mid the gruff com- 
plaint 
Of all his rebel tempests. Dark clouds 

faint 
When, from thy diadem, a silver gleam 
Slants over blue dominion. Thy bright 

team 
Gulfs in the morning light, and scuds along 
To bring thee nearer to that golden song 
Apollo singeth, while his chariot 
Waits at the doors of heaven. Thou art 
not 



For scenes like this : an empire stern hast 
thou; 960 

And it hath furrow'd that large front: yet 
now. 

As newly come of heaven, dost thou sit 

To blend aud interknit 

Subdued majesty with this glad time. 

O shell-borne King sublime ! 

We lay our hearts before thee evermore — 

We sing, aud we adore ! 

' Breathe softly, flutes ; 
Be tender of your strings, ye soothing 

lutes; 
Nor be the trumpet heard ! O vain, O 

vain ; 970 

Not flowers budding in an April rain. 
Nor breath of sleeping dove, nor river's 

flow, — 
No, nor the -S^olian twang of Love's own 

bow. 
Can mingle music fit for the soft ear 
Of goddess Cytherea ! 
Yet deign, white Queen of Beauty, thy fair 

eyes 
On our soul's sacrifice. 

' Bright-winged Child ! 

Who has another care when thou hast 
smiled ? 

Unfortunates on earth, we see at last 980 

All death-shadows, and glooms that over- 
cast 

Our spirits, fann'd away by thy light pin- 
ions. 

O sweetest essence ! sweetest of all min- 
ions ! 

God of warm pulses, and dishevell'd hair. 

And panting bosoms bare ! 

Dear unseen light in darkness ! eclipser 

Of light in light ! delicious poisoner ! 

Thy venom'd goblet will we quaff until 

We fill — we fill ! 989 

And by thy Mother's lips ' 

Was heard no more 
For clamour, when the golden palace door 
Open'd again, and from without, in shone 



94 



ENDYMION 



A new maguificence. On oozy throne 
Smooth-moving came Oceanus the old, 
To take a latest glimpse at his sheepfold, 
Before he went into his quiet cave 
To muse for ever — Then a lucid wave, 
Scoop'd from its trembling sisters of mid- 
sea, 
Afloat, and pillowing up the majesty 
Of Doris, and the -Sigean seer, her spouse — 
Next, on a dolphin, clad in laurel boughs, 
Theban Amphion leaning on his lute : 1002 
His fingers went across it — All were mute 
To gaze on Amphitrite, queen of pearls, 
And Thetis pearly too. — 

The palace whirls 
Around giddy Endymion ; seeing he 
Was there far strayed from mortality. 
He could not bear it — shut his eyes in 

vain; 
Imagination gave a dizzier pain. 
' O I shall die ! sweet Venus, be my stay ! 
Where is my lovely mistress ? Well- 
away ! ion 
I die — I hear her voice — I feel my 

wing — ' 
At Neptune's feet he sank. A sudden 

ring 
Of Nereids were about him, in kind strife 
To usher back his spirit into life: 
But still he slept. At last they interwove 
Their cradling arms, and purposed to con- 
vey 
Towards a crystal bower far away. 

Lo ! while slow carried through the pity- 
ing crowd. 

To his inward senses these words spake 
aloud ; 1020 

Written in starlight on the dark above: 

' Dearest Endymion ! my entire love ! 

How have I dwelt in fear of fate ; 't is 
done — 

Immortal bliss for me too hast thou won. 

Arise then! for the hen -dove shall not 
hatch 

Her ready eggs, before I 'II kissing snatch 

Thee into endless heaven. Aioake! aioake!' 



The youth at once arose: a placid lake 
Came quiet to his eyes; and forest green. 
Cooler than all the wonders he had seen, 
LuU'd with its simple song his fluttering 
breast. 103 1 

How happy once again in grassy nest ! 



BOOK IV 

Muse of my native land ! loftiest Muse ! 
O first-born on the mountains ! by the 

hues 
Of heaven on the spiritual air begot: 
Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot. 
While yet our England was a wolfish den; ' 
Before our forests heard the talk of men; 
Before the first of Druids was a child ; — 
Long didst thou sit amid our regions wild. 
Rapt in a deep prophetic solitude. 
There came an eastern voice of solemn 

mood: — 10 

Yet wast thou patient. Then sang forth 

the Nine, 
Apollo's garland : — yet didst thou divine 
Such home-bred glory, that they cried in 

vain, 
' Come hither. Sister of the Island ! ' Plain 
Spake fair Ausonia; and once more she 

spake 
A higher summons : — still didst thou be- 
take 
Thee to thy native hopes. O thou hast 

won 
A full accomplishment ! The thing is 

done. 
Which undone, these our latter days had 

risen 
On barren souls. Great Muse, thou know'st 

what prison 20 

Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and 

frets 
Our spirits' wings: despondency besets 
Our pillows; and the fresh to-morrow morn 
Seems to give forth its light in very scorn 
Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives. 
Long have I said, how happy he who 

shrives 



BOOK FOURTH 



95 



To thee ! But then I thought on poets 

gone, 
And could not pray : — nor can I now — so 

on 
I move to the end in lowliness of heart. — 

' Ah, woe is me ! that I should fondly 
part 30 

From my dear native laud ! Ah, foolish 
maid ! 

Glad was the hour, when, with thee, myri- 
ads bade 

Adieu to Ganges and their pleasant fields ! 

To one so friendless the clear freshet 
yields 

A bitter coolness ; the ripe grape is sour : 

Yet I would have, great gods ! but one 
short hour 

Of native air — let me but die at home.' 

Endymion to heaven's airy dome 
Was offering up a hecatomb of vows, 
When these words reach'd him. Where- 
upon he bows 40 
His head through thorny-green entangle- 
ment 
Of underwood, and to the sound is bent. 
Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn. 

' Is no one near to help me ? No fair 

dawn 
Of life from charitable voice ? No sweet 

saying 
To set my dull and sadden'd spirit playing ? 
No hand to toy with mine ? No lips so 

sweet 
That 1 may worship them ? No eyelids 

meet 
To twinkle on my bosom ? No one dies 
Before me, till from these enslaving eyes 50 
Redemption sparkles ! — I am sad and 

lost.' 

Thou, Carian lord, hadst better have been 

tost 
Into a whirlpool. Vanish into air. 
Warm mountaineer ! for canst thou only 

bear 



A woman's sigh alone and in distress ? 
See not her charms ! Is Phoebe passion- 
less ? 
Phoebe is fairer far — O gaze no more : — 
Yet if thou wilt behold all beauty's store. 
Behold her panting in the forest grass ! 
Do not those curls of glossy jet surpass 60 
For tenderness the arms so idly lain 
Amongst them ? Feelest not a kindred 

pain, 
To see such lovely eyes in swimming search 
After some warm delight, that seems to 

perch 
Dovelike in the dim cell lying beyond 
Their upper lids ? — Hist ! 

' O for Hermes' wand, 
To touch this flower into human shape ! 
That woodland Hyacinthus could escape 
From his green prison, and here kneeling 

down 
Call me his queen, his second life's fair 

crown ! 70 

Ah me, how I could love ! — My soul doth 

melt 
For the unhappy youth — Love ! I have 

felt 
So faint a kindness, such a meek surrender 
To what my own full thoughts had made 

too tender, 
That but for tears my life had fled away ! 
Ye deaf and senseless minutes of the day. 
And thou, old forest, hold ye this for true. 
There is no lightning, no authentic dew 
But in the eye of love : there 's not a sound, 
Melodious howsoever, can confound 80 

The heavens and earth in one to such a 

death 
As doth the voice of love : there 's not a 

breath 
Will mingle kindly with the meadow air, 
Till it has panted round, and stolen a share 
Of passion from the heart ! ' — i, 

Upon a bough 
He leant, wretched. He surely cannot now 
Thirst for another love : O impious. 
That he can even dream upon it thus ! — 



96 



ENDYMION 



Thought he, ' Why am I not as are the 

dead, 
Since to a woe like this I have been led 90 
Through the dark earth, and through the 

wondrous sea ? 
Goddess ! I love thee not the less: from 

thee 
By Juno's smile I turn not — no, no, no — 
While the great waters are at ebb and 

flow. — 
I have a triple soul ! O fond pretence — 
For both, for both my love is so immense, 
I feel my heart is cut for them in twain.' 

And so he groan'd, as one by beauty 

slain. 
The lady's heart beat quick, and he could 

see 
Her gentle bosom heave tumultuously. 100 
He sprang from his green covert: there 

she lay, 
Sweet as a musk-rose upon new-made hay; 
With all her limbs on tremble, and her 

eyes 
Shut softly up alive. To speak he tries: 
' Fair damsel, pity me ! forgive that I 
Thus violate thy bower's sanctity ! 

pardon me, for I am full of grief — 
Grief born of thee, young angel ! fairest 

thief ! 
Who stolen hast away the wings where- 
with 

1 was to top the heavens. Dear maid, sith 
Thou art my executioner, and I feel m 
Loving and hatred, misery and weal. 
Will in a few short hours be nothing to me, 
And all my story that much passion slew 

me; 
Do smile upon the evening of my days; 
And, for my tortured brain begins to craze, 
Be thou my nurse; and let me understand 
How dying I shall kiss that lily hand. — 
Dost weep for me ? Then should I be con- 
tent. 
Scowl on, ye fates ! until the firmament 120 
Outblackens Erebus, and the full-cavern'd 

earth 
Crumbles into itself. By the cloud-girth 



Of Jove, those tears have given me a thirst 
To meet oblivion.' — As her heart would 

burst 
The maiden sobb'd awhile, and then re- 
plied: 
' Why must such desolation betide 
As that thou speakest of ? Are not these 

green nooks 
Empty of all misfortune ? Do the brooks 
Utter a gorgon voice ? Does yonder 

thrush, 
Schooling its half-fledged little ones to 

brush 130 

About the dewy forest, whisper tales ? — 
Speak not of grief, young stranger, or cold 

snails 
Will slime the rose to-night. Though if 

thou wilt, 
Methinks 't would be a guilt — a very 

guilt — M 

Not to companion thee, and sigh away ■ 

The light — the dusk — the dark — till 

break of day ! ' 
' Dear lady,' said Endymion, ' 'tis past: 
I love thee ! and my days can never last. 
That I may pass in patience still speak: 
Let me have music dying, and I seek 140 
No more delight — I bid adieu to all. 
Didst thou not after other climates call, 
And murmur about Indian streams ? ' ^ 

Then she. 
Sitting beneath the midmost forest tree, 
For pity sang this roundelay 

' O Sorrow, 
Why dost borrow 
The natural hue of health, from vermeil 
lips ? — 
To give maiden blushes 
To the white rose bushes ? 150 

Or is 't thy dewy hand the daisy tips ? 

* O Sorrow, 

Why dost borrow 
The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye ? — 

To give the glowworm light ? 

Or, on a moonless night, 
To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry ? 



BOOK FOURTH 



97 



**0 Sorrow, 
Why dost borrow 
The mellow ditties from a mourning 
tongue ? — i6o 

To give at evening pale 
Unto the nightingale, 
That thou mayst listen the cold dews 
among ? 

' O Sorrow, 
Why dost borrow 
Heart's lightness from the merriment of 
May ? — 
A lover would not tread 
A cowslip on the head, 
Though he should dance from eve till peep 
of day — 
Nor any drooping flower 170 

Held sacred for thy bower, 
Wherever he may sport himself and play. 

' To Sorrow, 

I bade good morrow, 
And thought to leave her far away behind; 

But cheerly, cheerly. 

She loves me dearly; 
She is so constant to me, and so kind: 

I would deceive her, 

And so leave her, 180 

But ah ! she is so constant and so kind. 

' Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side, 
I sat a- weeping: in the whole world wide 
There was no one to ask me why I wept, — 

And so I kept 
Brimming the water-lily cups with tears 

Cold as my fears. 

* Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side, 
I sat a- weeping: what enaraour'd bride. 
Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds, 
But hides and shrouds 191 

Beneath dark palm-trees by a river side ? 

' And as I sat, over the light blue hills 
There came a noise of revellers: the rills 
Into the wide stream came of purple hue — 
'T was Bacchus and his crew ! 



The earnest trumpet spake, and silver 

thrills 
From kissing cymbals made a merry din — 

'T was Bacchus and his kin ! 
Like to a moving vintage down they came, 
Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all 

on flame; 201 

All madly dancing through the pleasant 

valley. 
To scare thee, Melancholy ! 
O then, O then, thou wast a simple name ! 
And I forgot thee, as the berried holly 
By shepherds is forgotten, when, in June, 
Tall chestnuts keep away the sun and 

moon: — 
I rush'd into the folly ! 

' Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood. 
Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood, 210 

With sidelong laughing; 
And little rills of crimson wine imbrued 
His plump white arms, and shoulders, 
enough white 

For Venus' pearly bite; 
And near him rode Silenus on his ass, 
Pelted with flowers as he on did pass 

Tipsily quaffing. 

' Whence came ye, merry Damsels ! whence 

came ye ! 
So many, and so many, and such glee ? 
Why have ye left your bowers desolate, 220 

Your lutes, and gentler fate ? — 
" We follow Bacchus ! Bacchus on the wing, 

A conquering ! 
Bacchus, young Bacchus ! good or ill be- 
tide, 
We dance before him thorough kingdoms 

wide : — 
Come hither, lady fair, and joined be 
To our wild minstrelsy ! " 

* Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs ! whence 

came ye, 
So many, and so many, and such glee ? 
Why have ye left your forest haunts, why 

left 230 

Your nuts in oak-tree cleft ? — 



98 



ENDYMION 



" For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree ; 
For wine we left our heath, and yellow 

brooms. 
And cold mushrooms; 
For wine we follow Bacchus through the 

earth; 
Great god of breathless cups and chirping 

mirth ! — 
Come hither, lady fair, and joined be 
To our mad minstrelsy ! " 

' Over wide streams and mountains great 

we went, 
And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent, 
Onward the tiger and the leopard pants, 241 

With Asian elephants: 
Onward these myriads — with song and 

dance. 
With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' 

prance, 
Web-footed alligators, crocodiles, 
Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files. 
Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil 
Of seamen, and stout galley- rowers' toil : 
With toying oars and silken sails they glide. 
Nor care for wind and tide. 250 

'Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' 

manes. 
From rear to van they scour about the 

plains ; 
A three days' journey in a moment done: 
And always, at tlie rising of the sun. 
About the wilds they hunt with spear and 

horn. 
On spleenful unicorn. 

' I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown 

Before the vine-wreath crown ! 

I saw parch'd Abyssinia rouse and sing 

To the silver cymbals' ring ! 260 

I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce 
Old Tartary the fierce ! 

The Kings of Inde their jewel-sceptres vail. 

And from their treasures scatter pearled 
hail; 

Great Brahma from his mystic heaven 
groans, 



And all his priesthood moans; 
Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning 

pale. — 
Into these regions came I following him, 
Sick-hearted, weary — so I took a whim 
To stray away into these forests drear 270 

Alone, without a peer: 
And I have told thee all thou mayest hear. 

• Young Stranger ! 

I 've been a ranger 

In search of pleasure throughout every 
clime : 
Alas, 't is not for me } 
Bewitch'd I sure must be. 

To lose in grieving all my maiden prime. 

• Come then. Sorrow ! 

Sweetest Sorrow ! 280 

Like an own babe I nurse thee on my 
breast: 
I thought to leave thee 
And deceive thee. 
But now of all the world I love thee best. 

• There is not one, 
No, no, not one 

But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid; 

Thou art her mother. 

And her brother. 
Her playmate, and her wooer in the 
shade.' v 290 

O what a sigh she gave in finishing. 
And look, quite dead to every worldly 

thing ! 
Endymion could not speak, but gazed on 

her: 
And listened to the wind that now did stir 
About the crisped oaks full drearily, 
Yet with as sweet a softness as might be 
Remember'd from its velvet summer song. 
At last he said: ' Poor lady, how thus long 
Have I been able to endure that voice ? 299 
Fair Melody ! kind Siren ! I 've no choice; 
I must be thy sad servant evermore: 
I cannot choose but kneel here and adore. 
Alas, I must not think — by Phoebe, no ! 



! 



BOOK FOURTH 



99 



Let me not think, soft Angel ! shall it be 

so? 
Say, beautifuUest, shall I never think ? 

thou couldst foster me beyond the brink 
Of recollection ! make my watchful care 
Close up its bloodshot eyes, nor see de- 
spair ! 

Do gently murder half my soul, and I 
Shall feel the other half so utterly ! — 310 

1 'm giddy at that cheek so fair and smooth ; 
O let it blush so ever ! let it soothe 

My madness ! let it mantle rosy-warm 

With the tinge of love, panting in safe 
alarm. — 

This cannot be thy band, and yet it is; 

And this is sure thine other softling — this 

Thine own fair bosom, and I am so near ! 

Wilt fall asleep ? O let me sip that tear ! 

And whisper one sweet word that I may 
know 

This is this world — sweet dewy blossom ! ' 
— Woe ! 320 

Woe ! woe to that Endymion ! Where is 
he'? — 

Even these words went echoing dismally 

Through the wide forest — a most fearful 
tone, 

Like one repenting in his latest moan; 

And while it died away a shade pass'd by. 

As of a thundercloud. When arrows fly 

Through the thick branches, poor ring- 
doves sleek forth 

Their timid necks and tremble; so these 
both 328 

Leant to each other trembling, and sat so 

Waiting for some destruction — when lo ! 

Foot-feather'd Mercury appear'd sublime 

Beyond the tall tree tops; and in less time 

Than shoots the slanted hail-storm, down 
he dropt 

Towards the ground; but rested not, nor 
stopt 

One moment from his home: only the 
sward 

He with his wand light touch'd, and hea- 
venward 

Swifter than sight was gone — even be- 
fore 



The teeming earth a sudden witness bore 
Of his swift magic. Diving swans appear 
Above the crystal circlings white and 

clear; 34° 

And catch the cheated eye in wild surprise. 
How they can dive in sight and unseen 

rise — 
So from the turf outsprang two steeds jet- 

• black, 
Each with large dark blue wings upon his 

back. 
The youth of Caria placed the lovely dame 
On one, and felt himself in spleen to tame 
The other's fierceness. Through the air 

they flew, 
High as the eagles. Like two drops of 

dew 
Exhaled to Phoebus' lips, away they are 

gone, 349 

Far from the earth away — unseen, alone. 
Among cool clouds and winds, but that the 

free. 
The buoyant life of song can floating be 
Above tbeir heads, and follow them untired. 
Muse of my native land, am I inspired ? 
This is the giddy air, and I must spread 
Wide pinions to keep here; nor do I dread 
Or height, or depth, or width, or any 

chance 
Precipitous: I have beneath my glance 
Those towering horses and their mournful 

freight. 359 

Could I thus sail, and see, and thus await 
Fearless for power of thought, without 

thine aid ? — 
There is a sleepy dusk, an odorous shade 
From some approaching wonder, and be- 
hold 
Those winged steeds, with snorting nostrils 

bold 
Snuff at its faint extreme, and seem to 

tire. 
Dying to embers from their native fire ! 

There curl'd a purple mist around them ; 
soon. 
It seem'd as when around the pale new 
moon 



ENDYMION 



Sad Zephyr droops the clouds like weeping 
willow: 

'T was Sleep slow journeying with head on 
pillow 37° 

For the first time, since he came nigh dead- 
born 

From the old womb of night, his cave for- 
lorn 

Had he left more forlorn; for the first 
time, 

He felt aloof the day and morning's 
prime — 

Because into his depth Cimmerian 

There came a dream, showing how a young 
man, 

Ere a lean bat could plump its wintery 
skin, 

Would at high Jove's empyreal footstool 
win 

An immortality, and how espouse 

Jove's daughter, and be reckon'd of his 
house. 380 

Now was he slumbering towards heaven's 
gate. 

That he might at the threshold one hour 
wait 

To hear the marriage melodies, and then 

Sink downward to his dusky cave again. 

His litter of smooth semilucent mist. 

Diversely tinged with rose and amethyst, 

Puzzled those eyes that for the centre 
sought; 

And scarcely for one moment could be 
caught 

His sluggish form reposing motionless. 

Those two on winged steeds, with all the 
stress 390 

Of vision search'd for him, as one would 
look 

Athwart the sallows of a river nook 

To catch a glance at silver-throated eels, — 

Or from old Skiddaw's top, when fog con- 
ceals 

His rugged forehead in a mantle pale. 

With an eye-guess towards some pleasant 
vale 

Descry a favourite hamlet faint and far. 



These raven horses, though they foster'd 

are 
Of earth's splenetic &ve, dully drop 
Their fuU-vein'd ears, nostrils blood wide, 

and stop; 400 

Upon the spiritless mist have they out- 
spread 
Their ample feathers, are in slumber 

dead, — 
And on those pinions, level in mid air, 
Endymion sleepeth and the lady fair. 
Slowly they sail, slowly as icy isle 
Upon a calm sea drifting: and meanwhile 
The mournful wanderer dreams. Behold ! 

he walks 
On heaven's pavement; brotherly he talks 
To divine powers: from his hand full fain 
Juno's proud birds are pecking pearly 

grain : 4 10 

He tries the nerve of Phcebus' golden bow. 
And asketh where the golden apples grow: 
Upon his arm he braces Pallas' shield. 
And strives in vain to unsettle and wield 
A Jovian thunderbolt: arch Hebe brings 
A full-brimm'd goblet, dances lightly, sings 
And tantalizes long; at last he drinks. 
And lost in pleasure, at her feet he sinks, 
Touching with dazzled lips her starlight 

hand. 
He blows a bugle, — an ethereal band 420 
Are visible above: the Seasons four, — 
Green-kirtled Spring, flush Summer, golden 

store 
In Autumn's sickle. Winter frosty hoar. 
Join dance with shadowy Hours; while still 

the blast. 
In swells unmitigated, still doth last 
To sway their floating morris. ' Whose is 

this ? 
Whose bugle ? ' he inquires: they smile — 

' O Dis ! 
Why is this mortal here ? Dost thou not , 

know I 

Its mistress' lips ? Not thou ? — 'T is ' 

Dian's: lo ! 429 

She rises crescented ! ' He looks, 't is she, 
His very goddess : good-bye earth, and sea, 



BOOK FOURTH 



And air, and pains, and care, and suffering; 
Good-bye to all but love ! Then doth he 

spring 
Towards her, and awakes — and, strange, 

o'erhead. 
Of those same fragrant exhalations bred, 
Beheld awake his very dream : the gods 
Stood smiling; merry Hebe laughs and 

nods; 
And Phoebe bends towards him crescented. 

state perplexing ! On the pinion bed. 
Too well awake, he feels the panting side 440 
Of his delicious lady. He who died 

For soaring too audacious in the sun, 
When that same treacherous wax began to 

rim, 
Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion. 
His heart leapt up as to its rightful throne. 
To that fair - shadow'd passion pulsed its 

way — 
Ah, what perplexity ! Ah, well a day ! 
So fond, so beauteous was his bed-fellow. 
He could not help but kiss her: then he 

grew 
Awhile forgetful of all beauty save 450 

Yoimg Phoebe's, golden-hair'd ; and so 'gan 

crave 
Forgiveness : yet he turn'd once more to look 
At the sweet sleeper, — all his soul was 

shook, — 
She press'd his hand in slumber; so once 

more 
He could not help but kiss her and adore. 
At this the shadow wept, melting away. 
The Latmian started up : ' Bright goddess, 

stay ! 
Search my most hidden breast ! By truth's 

own tongue, 

1 have no dfedale heart; why is it wrung 459 
To desperation ? Is there nought for me, 
Upon the bourne of bliss, but misery ? ' 

These words awoke the stranger of dark 

tresses : 
Her dawning love - look rapt Endymion 

blesses 
With 'haviour soft. Sleep yawn'd from 

underneath. 



' Thou swan of Ganges, let us no more 

breathe 
This murky phantasm ! thou contented 

seem'st 
Pillow'd in lovely idleness, nor dream'st 
What horrors may discomfort thee and 

me. 
Ah, shouldst thou die from my heart- 
treachery ! — 469 
Yet did she merely weep — her gentle soul 
Hath no revenge in it: as it is whole 
In tenderness, would I were whole in love ! 
Can I prize thee, fair maid, all price above, 
Even when I feel as true as innocence ? 
I do, I do. — What is this soul then ? 

Whence 
Came it ? It does not seem my own, and I 
Have no self-passion or identity. 
Some fearful end must be: where, where 

is it? 
By Nemesis, I see my spirit flit 479 

Alone about the dark — Forgive me, sweet : 
Shall we away?' He roused the steeds; 

they beat 
Their wings chivalrous into the clear air, 
Leaving old Sleep within his vapoury lair. 

The good-night blush of eve was waning 

slow, 
And Vesper, risen star, began to throe 
In the dusk heavens silvery, when they 
Thus sprang direct towards the Galaxy. 
Nor did speed hinder converse soft and 

strange — 
Eternal oaths and vows they interchange. 
In such wise, in such temper, so aloof 490 
Up in the winds, beneath a starry roof, " 
So witless of their doom, that verily 
'T is well nigh past man's search their hearts 

to see; 
Whether they wept, or laugh'd, or grieved 

or toy'd — 
Most like with joy gone mad, with sorrow 

cloy'd. 

Full facing their swift flight, from ebon 
streak, 
The moon put forth a little diamond peak, 



I02 



ENDYMION 



No bigger than an unobserved star, 

Or tiny point of fairy scimetar; 

Bright signal that she only stoop'd to tie 500 

Her silver sandals, ere delieiously 

She bow'd into the heavens her timid head. 

Slowly she rose, as though she would have 

fled, 
While to his lady meek the Carian turn'd. 
To mark if her dark eyes had yet diseern'd 
This beauty in its birth — Despair ! despair ! 
He saw her body fading gaunt and spare 
In the cold moonshine. Straight he seized 

her wrist; 
It melted from his grasp; her hand he 

kiss'd, 
And, horror ! kiss'd his own — he was 

alone. 51° 

Her steed a little higher soar'd, and then 
Dropt hawk-wise to the earth. 

There lies a den. 
Beyond the seeming confines of the space 
Made for the soul to wander in and trace 
Its own existence, of remotest glooms. 
Dark regions are around it, where the 

tombs 
Of buried griefs the spirit sees, but scarce 
One hour doth linger weeping, for the 

pierce 
Of new-born woe it feels more inly smart: 
And in these regions many a venom'd 

dart 520 

At random flies; they are the proper home 
Of every ill: the man is yet to come 
Who hath not journey'd in this native hell. 
But few have ever felt how calm and well 
Sleep may be had in that deep den of all. 
There anguish does not sting, nor pleasure 

pall; 
Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate, 
Yet all is still within and desolate. 
Beset with painful gusts, within ye hear 529 
No sound so loud as when on curtain'd bier 
The death-watch tick is stifled. Enter none 
Who strive therefore: on the sudden it is 

won. 
Just when the sufferer begins to burn. 
Then it is free to him ; and from an urn, 



Still fed by melting ice, he takes a 

draught — 
Young Semele such richness never quaff'd 
In her maternal longing. Happy gloom ! 
Dark Paradise ! where pale becomes the 

bloom 
Of health by due; where silence dreariest 
Is most articulate ; where hopes infest ; 540 
Where those eyes are the brightest far that 

keep 
Their lids shut longest in a dreamless sleep. 
O happy spirit-home ! O wondrous soul ! 
Pregnant with such a den to save the whole 
In thine own depth. Hail, gentle Carian ! 
For, never since thy griefs and woes began, 
Hast thou felt so content: a grievous feud 
Hath led thee to this Cave of Quietude. 
Aye, his lull'd soul was there, although up- 
borne 
With dangerous speed: and so he did not 

mourn 550 

Because he knew not whither he was going. 
So happy was he, not the aerial blowing 
Of trumpets at clear parley from the east 
Could rouse from that fine relish, that high 

feast. 
They stung the feather 'd horse; with fierce 

alarm 
He flapp'd towards the sound. Alas, no 

charm 
Could lift Endymion's head, or he had 

view'd 
A skyey mask, a pinion'd multitude, — 
And silvery was its passing: voices sweet 
Warbling the while as if to lull and greet 
The wanderer in his path. Thus warbled 

they, 561 

While past the vision went in bright array. 

' Who, who from Dian's feast would be 

away ? 
For all the golden bowers of the day 
Are empty left ? Who, who away would 

be 
From Cynthia's wedding and festivity ? 
Not Hesperus: lo ! upon his silver wings 
He leans away for highest heaven and sings, 
Snapping his lucid fingers merrily ! — 



BOOK FOURTH 



103 



Ah, Zephyrus ! art here, and Flora too ! 570 
Ye tender bibbers of the rain and dew. 
Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, 
Be careful, ere ye enter in, to fill 

Your baskets high 
With fennel green, and balm, and golden 

pines. 
Savory, latter-mint, and columbines, 
Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny thyme; 
Yea, every flower and leaf of every clime, 
All gather'd in the dewy morning: hie 

Away ! fly, fly ! — 580 

Crystalline brother of the belt of heaven, 
Aquarius ! to whom king Jove has given 
Two liquid pulse streams 'stead of feath- 

er'd wings, 
Two fanlike fountains, — thine illumiuings 

For Dian play: 
Dissolve the frozen purity of air; 
Let thy white shoulders silvery and bare 
Show cold through watery pinions; make 

more bright 
The Star-Queen's crescent on her marriage 

night: 

Haste, haste away ! — 590 

Castor has tamed the planet Lion, see ! 
And of the Bear has Pollux mastery: 
A third is in the race ! who is the third. 
Speeding away swift as the eagle bird ? 

The ramping Centaur ! 
The Lion's mane 's on end: the Bear how 

fierce ! 
The Centaur's arrow ready seems to pierce 
Some enemy: far forth his bow is bent 
Into the blue of heaven. He '11 be shent. 

Pale unrelentor, 600 

When he shall hear the wedding lutes 

a-playing. — 
Andromeda ! sweet woman ! why delaying 
So timidly among the stars: come hither ! 
Join this bright throng, and nimbly follow 

whither 

They all are going. 
Danae's Son, before Jove newly bow'd. 
Has wept for thee, calling to Jove aloud. 
Thee, gentle lady, did he disenthrall: 
Ye shall for ever live and love, for all 

Thy tears are flowing. — 610 

By Daphne's fright, behold Apollo ! ' — 



More 
Endymion heard not: down his steed him 

bore. 
Prone to the green head of a misty hill. 

His first touch of the earth went nigh to 

kill. 
' Alas ! ' said he, ' were I but always borne 
Through dangerous winds, had but my 

footsteps worn 
A path in hell, for ever would I bless 
Horrors which nourish an uneasiness 
For my own sullen conquering: to him 
Who lives beyond earth's boundary, grief 

is dim, 620 

Sorrow is but a shadow: now I see 
The grass; I feel the solid ground — Ah, 

me ! 
It is thy voice — divinest ! Where ? — 

who ? who 
Left thee so quiet on this bed of dew ? 
Behold upon this happy earth we are; 
Let us ay love each other; let us fare 
On forest-fruits, and never, never go 
Among the abodes of mortals here below. 
Or be by phantoms duped. O destiny ! 
Into a labyrinth now my soul would fly, 630 
But with thy beauty will I deaden it. 
Where didst thou melt to ? By thee will 

I sit 
For ever: let our fate stop here — a kid 
I on this spot will offer: Pan will bid 
Us live in peace, in love and peace among 
His forest wildernesses. I have clung 
To nothing, loved a nothing, nothing seen 
Or felt but a great dream ! Oh, I have 

been 
Presumptuous against love, against the 

sky. 
Against all elements, against the tie 640 
Of mortals each to each, against the blooms 
Of flowers, rush of rivers, and the tombs 
Of heroes gone ! Against his proper glory 
Has my own soul conspired: so my story 
Will I to children utter, and repent. 
There never lived a mortal man, who bent 
His appetite beyond his natural sphere. 
But starved and died. My sweetest Indian, 

here, 



I04 



ENDYMION 



Here will I kneel, for thou redeemed hast 
My life from too thin breathing: gone and 

past 650 

Are cloudy phantasms. Caverns lone, 

farewell ! 
And air of visions, and the monstrous swell 
Of visionary seas ! No, never more 
Shall airy voices cheat me to the shore 
Of tangled wonder, breathless and aghast. 
Adieu, my daintiest Dream ! although so 

vast 
My love is still for thee. The hour may 

come 
When we shall meet in pure elysium. 
On earth I may not love thee; and there- 
fore 
Doves will I offer up, and sweetest store 660 
All through the teeming year : so thou wilt 

shine 
On me, and on this damsel fair of mine, 
And bless our simple lives. My Indian 

bliss ! 
My river-lily bud ! one human kiss ! 
One sigh of real breath — one gentle 

squeeze. 
Warm as a dove's nest among summer 

trees. 
And warm with dew at ooze from living 

blood ! 
Whither didst melt ? Ah, what of that ! — 

all good 
We '11 talk about — no more of dreaming. 

— Now, 
Where shall our dwelling be ? Under the 

brow 670 

Of some steep mossy hill, where ivy dun 
Would hide us up, although spring leaves 

were none; 
And where dark yew trees, as we rustle 

through 
Will drop their scarlet berry cups of dew ? 
O thou wouldst joy to live in such a place ; 
Dusk for our loves, yet light enough to 

grace 
Those gentle limbs on mossy bed reclined: 
For by one step the blue sky shouldst thou 

find. 
And by another, in deep dell below. 



See, through the trees, a little river go 680 
All in its mid-day gold and glimmering. 
Honey from out the gnarled hive I '11 bring. 
And apples, wan with sweetness, gather 

thee, — 
Cresses that grow where no man may them 

see. 
And sorrel untorn by the dew-claw'd stag: 
Pipes will I fashion of the syrinx flag. 
That thou mayst always know whither I 

roam. 
When it shall please thee in our quiet 

home 
To listen and think of love. Still let me 

speak; 
Still let me dive into the joy I seek, — 690 
For yet the past doth prison me. The 

rill, 
Thou haply mayst delight in, will I fill 
With fairy fishes from the mountain tarn. 
And thou shalt feed them from the squir- 
rel's barn. 
Its bottom will I strew with amber shells, 
And pebbles blue from deep enchanted 

wells. 
Its sides I '11 plant with dew-sweet eglan- 
tine. 
And honeysuckles full of clear bee-wine. 
I will entice this crystal rill to trace 
Love's silver name upon the meadow's 
face. 700 

I '11 kneel to Vesta, for a flame of fire ; 
And to god Phoebus, for a golden lyre ; 
To Empress Dian, for a hunting-spear; 
To Vesper, for a taper silver-clear. 
That I may see thy beauty through the 

night; 
To Flora, and a nightingale shall light 
Tame on thy finger; to the River-gods, 
And they shall bring thee taper fishing- 
rods 
Of gold, and lines of Naiads' long bright 

tress. 
Heaven shield thee for thine utter loveli- 
ness ! 710 
Thy mossy footstool shall the altar be 
'Fore which I '11 bend, bending, dear love, 
to thee: 






BOOK FOURTH 



105 



Those lips shall be my Delphos, and shall 
speak 

Laws to my footsteps, colour to my cheek, 

Trembling or steadfastness to this same 
voice, 

And of three sweetest pleasurings the 
choice: 

And that affectionate light, those diamond 
things, 

Those eyes, those passions, those supreme 
pearl springs, 

Shall be my grief, or twinkle me to plea- 
sure. 

Say, is not bliss within our perfect seiz- 
ure ? 720 

that I could not doubt ! ' 

The mountaineer 
Thus strove by fancies vain and crude to 

clear 
His brier'd path to some tranquillity. 
It gave bright gladness to his lady's eye, 
And yet the tears she wept were tears of 

sorrow; 
Answering thus, just as the golden mor- 
row 
Beam'd upward from the valleys of the 

east: 
' O that the flutter of his heart had ceased. 
Or the sweet name of love had pass'd 

away. 
Young feather'd tyrant ! by a swift de- 
cay 730 
Wilt thou devote this body to the earth: 
And I do think that at my very birth 

1 lisp'd thy blooming titles inwardly; 

For at the first, first dawn and thought of 

thee. 
With uplift hands I blest the stars of hea- 
ven. 
Art thou not cruel ? Ever have I striven 
To think thee kind, but ah, it will not do ! 
When yet a child, I heard that kisses drew 
Favour from thee, and so I gave and gave 
To the void air, bidding them find out 
love: 740 

But when I came to feel how far above 
All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood. 



All earthly pleasure, all imagined good. 
Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss, — 
Even then, that moment, at the thought of 

this, 
Fainting I fell into a bed of flowers, 
And languish'd there three days. Ye 

milder powers. 
Am I not cruelly wrong'd ? Believe, be- 
lieve 
Me, dear Endymion, were I to weave 
With my own fancies garlands of sweet 
life, 750 

Thou shouldst be one of all. Ah, bitter 

strife ! 
I may not be thy love : I am forbidden — ■ 
Indeed I am — thwarted, affrighted, chid- 
den. 
By things I tremble at, and gorgon wrath. 
Twice hast thou ask'd whither I went: 

henceforth 
Ask me no more ! I may not utter it. 
Nor may I be thy love. We might com- 
mit 
Ourselves at once to vengeance; we might 

die; 
We might embrace and die: voluptuous 

thought ! 
Enlarge not to my hunger, or I 'm caught 
In trammels of perverse deliciousness. 761 
No, no, that shall not be: thee will I bless, 
And bid a long adieu.' 

The Carian 
No word return'd: both lovelorn, silent, 

wan. 
Into the valleys green together went. 
Far wandering, they were perforce con- 
tent 
To sit beneath a fair lone beechen tree; 
Nor at each other gazed, but heavily 
Pored on its hazel cirque of shedded leaves. 

Endymion ! unhappy ! it nigh grieves 770 
Me to behold thee thus in last extreme : 
Enskied ere this, but truly that I deem 
Truth the best music in a first-born song. 
Thy lute-voiced brother will I sing ere 
long, 



io6 



ENDYMION 



And thou shalt aid — hast thou not aided 

me? 
Yes, moonlight Emperor ! felicity 
Has been thy meed for many thousand 

years ; 
Yet often have I, on the brink of tears, 
Mourn 'd as if yet thou wert a forester; — 
Forgetting the old tale. 

He did not stir 
His eyes from the dead leaves, or one small 

pulse 781 

Of joy he might have felt. The spirit culls 
Unfaded amaranth, when wild it strays 
Through the old garden-ground of boyish 

days. 
A little onward ran the very stream 
By which he took his first soft poppy 

dream ; 
And on the very bark 'gainst which he 

leant 
A crescent he had carved, and round it 

spent 
His skill in little stars. The teeming tree 
Had swollen and green'd the pious charac- 

tery, 790 

But not ta'en out. Why, there was not a 

slope 
Up which he had not fear'd the antelope; 
And not a tree, beneath whose rooty shade 
He had not with his tamed leopards play'd; 
Nor could an arrow light, or javelin. 
Fly in the air where his had never been — 
And yet he knew it not. 

O treachery ! 
Why does his lady smile, pleasing her eye 
With all his sorrowing ? He sees her not. 
But who so stares on him ? His sister 
sure ! 800 

Peona of the woods ! — Can she endure — 
Impossible — how dearly they embrace ! 
His lady smiles; delight is in her face; 
It is no treachery. 

' Dear brother mine ! 
Endymion, weep not so ! Why shouldst 
thou pine 



When all great Latmos so exalt will be ? 
Thank the great gods, and look not bit- 
terly; 
And speak not one pale word, and sigh no 

more. 
Sure I will not believe thou hast such store 
Of grief, to last thee to my kiss again. Sio 
Thou surely canst not bear a mind in pain, 
Come hand in hand with one so beauti- 
ful. 
Be happy both of you ! for I will pull 
The flowers of autumn for j'our coronals. 
Pan's holy priest for ybimg Endymion calls; 
And when he is restored, thou, fairest 

dame, 
Shalt be our queen. Now, is it not a shame 
To see ye thus, — not very, very sad ? 
Perhaps ye are too happy to be glad: 
O feel as if it were a common day; 820 

Free-voiced as one who never was away. 
No tongue shall ask, Whence come ye ? but 

ye shall 
Be gods of your own rest imperial. 
Not even I, for one whole month, will pry 
Into the hours that have pass'd us by, 
Since in my arbour I did sing to thee. 
O Hermes ! on this very night will be 
A hymning up to Cynthia, queen of light; 
For the soothsayers old saw yesternight 
Good visions in the air, — whence will be- 
fall, 830 
As say these sages, health perpetual 
To shepherds and their flocks ; and further- 
more, 
In Dian's face they read the gentle lore: 
Therefore for her these vesper-carols are. 
Our friends will all be there from nigh and 

far. 
Many upon thy death have ditties made ; 
And many, even now, their foreheads shade 
With cypress, on a day of sacrifice. 
New singing for our maids shalt thou devise, 
And pluck the sorrow from our huntsmen's 
brows. 840 

Tell me, my lady-queen, how to espouse 
This wayward brother to his rightful joys! 
His eyes are on thee bent, as thou didst 
poise 



J 



BOOK FOURTH 



107 



His fate most goddess-like. Help me, I 

pray, 
To lure — Endymion, dear brother, say 
What ails thee ? ' He could bear no more, 

and so 
Bent his soul fiercely like a spiritual bow, 
And twang'd it inwardly, and calmly said: 
' I would have thee my only friend, sweet 

maid ! 
My only visitor ! not ignorant though, 850 
That those deceptions which for pleasure 

go 
'Mong men, are pleasures real as real may 

be: 
But there are higher ones I may not see. 
If impiously an earthly realm I take. 
Since I saw thee, I have been wide awake 
Night after night, and day by day, until 
Of the empyrean I have drunk my fill. 
Let it content thee, Sister, seeing me 
More happy than betides mortality. 
A hermit young, I '11 live in mossy cave, 860 
Where thou alone shalt come to me, and 

lave 
Thy spirit in the wonders I shall tell. 
Through me the shepherd realm shall pro- 
sper well; 
For to thy tongue will I all health confide. 
And, for my sake, let this young maid abide 
With thee as a dear sister. Thou alone, 
Peona, mayst return to me. I own 
This may sound strangely: but when, dear- 
est girl, 
Thou seest it for my happiness, no pearl 
Will trespass down those cheeks. Compan- 
ion fair ! 870 
Wilt be content to dwell with her, to share 
This sister's love with me ? ' Like one re- 

sign'd 
And bent by circumstance, and thereby 

blind 
In self-commitment, thus that meek un- 
known : 
* Aye, but a buzzing by my ears has flown. 
Of jubilee to Dian: — truth I heard ! 
Well then, I see there is no little bird, 
Tender soever, but is Jove's own care. 
Long have I sought for rest, and, unaware. 



Behold I find it ! so exalted too ! 880 

So after my own heart ! I knew, I knew 
There was a place untenanted in it; 
In that same void white Chastity shall sit. 
And monitor me nightly to lone slumber. 
With sanest lips I vow me to the number 
Of Dian's sisterhood; and, kind lady. 
With thy good help, this very night shall 

see 
My future days to her fane consecrate.' 

As feels a dreamer what doth most cre- 
ate 
His own particular fright, so these three 

felt: 890 

Or like one who, in after ages, knelt 
To Lucifer or Baal, when he 'd pine 
After a little sleep : or when in mine 
Far uuder-gTouud, a sleeper meets his 

friends 
Who know him not. Each diligently bends 
Towards common thoughts and things for 

very fear; 
Striving their ghastly malady to cheer, 
By thinking it a thing of yes and no. 
That housewives talk of. But the spirit- 
blow 
Was struck, and all were dreamers. At 

the last goo 

Endymion said: * Are not our fates all 

cast ? 
Why stand we here ? Adieu, ye tender 

pair ! 
Adieu ! ' Whereat those maidens, with 

wild stare, 
Walk'd dizzily away. Pained and hot 
His eyes went after them, until they got 
Near to a cypress grove, whose deadly 

maw. 
In one swift moment, would what then he 

saw 
Engulf for ever. ' Stay,' he cried, ' ah, 

stay ! 
Turn, damsels ! hist ! one word I have to 

say: 
Sweet Indian, I would see thee once again. 
It is a thing I dote on: so I 'd fain, 911 

Peona, ye should hand in hand repair, 



To8 



ENDYMION 



Into those holy groves that silent are 
Behind great Dian's temple. I '11 be yon, 
At Vesper's earliest twinkle — they are 

gone — 
But once, once, once again — ' At this he 

press'd 
His hands against his face, and then did 

rest 
His head upon a mossy hillock green, 
And so remain'd as he a corpse had been 
All the long day; save when he scantly 

lifted 920 

His eyes abroad, to see how shadows shifted 
With the slow move of time, — sluggish 

and weary 
Until the poplar tops, in journey dreary. 
Had reaeh'd the river's brim. Then up he 

rose. 
And, slowly as that very river flows, 
Walk'd towards the temple grove with this 

lament: 
' Why such a golden eve ? The breeze is 

sent 
Careful and soft, that not a leaf may fall 
Before the serene father of them all 
Bows down his summer head below the 

west. 930 

Now am I of breath, speech, and speed 

possest. 
But at the setting I must bid adieu 
To her for the last time. Night will-strew 
On the damp grass myriads of lingering 

leaves. 
And with them shall I die; nor much it 

grieves 
To die, when summer dies on the cold 

sward. 
Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord 
Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly po- 
sies. 
Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbour- 
roses; 939 
My kingdom 's at its death, and just it is 
That I should die with it: so in all this 
We miscall grief, bale, sorrow, heart-break, 

woe. 
What is there to plain of ? By Titan's foe 
I am but rightly served.' So saying, he 



Tripp'd lightly on, in sort of death ful glee; 
Laughing at the clear stream and setting 

sun. 
As though they jests had been: nor had he 

done 
His laugh at nature's holy countenance, 
Until that grove appear'd, as if perchance. 
And then his tongue with sober seemlihed 
Gave utterance as he enter'd: *Ha!' I 

said, 95 1 

• King of the butterflies ; but by this gloom. 
And by old Rhadamanthus' tongue of doom, 
This dusk religion, pomp of solitude. 
And the Promethean clay by thief endued, 
By old Saturnus' forelock, by his head 
Shook with eternal palsy, I did wed 
Myself to things of light from infancy; 
And thus to be cast oixt, thus lorn to die, 
Is sure enough to make a mortal man 960 
Grow impious.' So he inwardly began 
On things for which no wording can be 

found; 
Deeper and deeper sinking, until drown'd 
Beyond the reach of music: for the choir 
Of Cynthia he heard not, though rough 

brier 
Nor muffling thicket interposed to dull 
The vesper hymn, far swollen, soft and full. 
Through the dark pillars of those 'Sylvan 

aisles. 
He saw not the two maidens, nor their 

smiles. 
Wan as primroses gather'd at midnight 970 
By chilly-finger'd spring. ' Unhappy wight ! 
Endymion ! ' said Peona, ' we are here ! 
What wouldst thou ere we all are laid on 

bier ? ' 
Then he embraced her, and his lady's hand 
Press'd, saying: * Sister, I would have com- 
mand. 
If it were heaven's will, on our sad fate.' 
At which that dark-eyed stranger stood 

elate 
And said, in a new voice, but sweet as love. 
To Endymion's amaze: 'By Cupid's dove, 
And so thou shalt ! and by the lily truth 
Of my own breast thou shalt, beloved 

youth ! ' 981 



BOOK FOURTH 



109 



And as she spake, into her face there 

came 
Light, as reflected from a silver flame: 
Her long black hair swell'd ampler, in dis- 

•play 
Full golden; in her eyes a brighter day 
Dawn'd blue, and full of love. Aye, he 

beheld 
Phoebe, his passion ! joyous she upheld 
Her lucid bow, continuing thus: "Drear, 

drear 
Has our delaying been; but foolish fear 
Withheld me first; and then decrees of 

late ; 990 

And then 't was fit that from this mortal 

state 



Thou shouldst, my love, by some unlook'd- 

f or change 
Be spiritualized. Peona, we shall range 
These forests, and to thee they safe shall be 
As was thy cradle; hither shalt thou flee 
To meet us many a time.' Next Cynthia 

bright 
Peona kiss'd, and bless'd with fair good 

night: 
Her brother kiss'd her too, and knelt adown 
Before his goddess, in a blissful swoon. 999 
She gave her fair hands to him, and behold, 
Before three swiftest kisses he had told. 
They vanish'd far away ! — Peona went 
Home through the gloomy wood in won- 
derment. 



THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



The most pregnant year of Keats's genius 
was that which dates roughly from the 
spring of 1818 to the spring of 1819, as 
one may readily see who scans the titles of 
the poems included in this division. The 
group here given, beginning with Isabella 

ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF 
BASIL 

A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO 

Keats and Reynolds projected a volume of 
metrical tales translated from or based on Boc- 
caccio. Apparently, Keats began Isabella, 
•which was to be one of his contributions, some 
time before he went to Teignmouth, where he 
finished Endymion. At any rate, from that 
place April 27, 1818, he wrote to Reynolds, 
who was then quite ill : ' 1 have written for my 
folio Shakespeare, in which there are the first 
few stanzas of my Pot of Basil. I have the 
rest here finished, and will copy the whole out 
fairly shortly, and George wUl bring it you — 
The compliment is paid by us to Boccace, 
whether we publish or no : so there is content 
in this world — mine is short — you must be 
deliberate about yours ; you must not think of 
it till many months after you are quite well : 
then put your passion to it, and I shall be 
boimd up with you in the shadows of Mind, as 
we are in our matters of human life.' Keats 
did not wait for Reynolds, but published his 
Isabellam the volume entitled Lamia, Isabella, 
The Eve of St. Agnes, and other Poems issued 
in the summer of 1820. 



Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel ! 

Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye ! 
They could not in the self-same mansion 
dwell 
Without some stir of heart, some mal- 
ady; 



and closing with Lamia, includes, besides 
those poems and The Eve of St. A gnes, the 
great Odes, Fancy, and some of the notable 
Sonnets. The division, besides being a con- 
venient one, seems almost logical and not 
merely chronological. 

They could not sit at meals but feel how 

well 
It soothed each to be the other by; 
They could not, sure, beneath the same 

roof sleep 
But to each other dream, and nightly weep. 

n 
With every morn their love grew tenderer, 
With every eve deeper and tenderer still;. 
He might not in house, field, or garden 
stir, 
But her full shape would all his seeing 
fill; 
And his continual voice was pleasanter 

To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill; 
Her lute-string gave an echo of his name, 
She spoilt her half-done broidery with the 
same. 



He knew whose gentle hand was at the 
latch, 
Before the door had given her to his 
eyes; 
And from her chamber-window he would 
catch 
Her beauty farther than the falcon spies; 
And constant as her vespers would he 
watch. 
Because her face was turn'd to the same 
skies; 
And with sick longing all the night out- 
wear. 
To hear her morning-step upon the stair. 



ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 



A whole long month of May in this sad 
plight 
Made their cheeks paler by the break of 
June: 
' To-morrow will I bow to my delight, 

To-morrow will I ask my lady's boon.' — 
' O may I never see another night, 

Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love's 
tune.' — 
So spake they to their pillows; but, alas, 
Moneyless days and days did he let pass ; 



Until sweet Isabella's untouch'd cheek 

Fell sick within the rose's just domain. 
Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth 
seek 
By every lull to cool her infant's pain: 
* How ill she is ! ' said he, ' I may not 
speak. 
And yet I will, and tell my love all plain: 
If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her 

tears. 

And at the least 't will startle off her 
cares.' 



So said he one fair morning, and all day 
1 His heart beat awfully against his side; 
And to his heart he inwardly did pray 

For power to speak; but still the ruddy 
tide 
Stifled his voice, and pulsed resolve away — 

Fever'd his high conceit of such a bride, 
Yet brought him to the meekness of a 

child: 
Alas! when passion is both meek and wild ! 

VII 

So onc( more he had %Faked and anguished 
A dreary night of love and misery, 

If Isabel's quick eye liad not been wed 
To every symbol oii his forehead high: 

She saw it waxing very pale and dead, 
And straight all 1 ash'd; so, lisped ten- 
derly. 



' Lorenzo ! ' — here she ceased her timid 

quest, 
But in her tone and look he read the rest. 



* O Isabella, I can half perceive 

That I may speak my grief into thine ear ; 
If thou didst ever any thing believe, 

Believe how I love thee, believe how 
near 
My soul is to its doom: I would not grieve 

Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would 
not fear 
Thine eyes by gazing; but I cannot live 
Another night, and not my passion shrive. 



' Love ! thou art leading me from wintry 
cold, 
Lady ! thou leadest me to summer clime. 
And I must taste the blossoms that unfold 
In its ripe warmth this gracious morning 
time.' 
So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold, 
And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme: 
Great bliss was with them, and great hap- 
piness 
Grew, like a lusty flower in June's caress. 



Parting they seem'd to tread upon the air. 
Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart 

Only to meet again more close, and share 
The inward fragrance of each other's 
heart. 

She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair 
Sang, of delicious love and honey'd dart; 

He with light steps went up a western hill. 

And bade the sun farewell, and joy'd his 
fill. 

XI 

AU close they met again, before the dusk 
Had taken from the stars its pleasant 
veil, 
All close they met, all eves, before the dusk 
Had taken from the stars its pleasant 
veil, 



112 THE POEMS 


OF 1818-1819 


Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk, 




Unknown of any, free from whispering 


XV 


tale. 


For them the Ceylon diver held his breath, 


Ah ! better had it been for ever so, 


And went all naked to the hungry shark; 


Than idle ears should pleasure in their 


For them his ears gush'd blood; for them 


woe. 


in death 




The seal on the cold ice with piteous 


XII 


bark 


Were they unhappy then ? — It cannot 


Lay full of darts; for them alone did 


be — 


seethe 


Too many tears for lovers have been 


A thousand men in troubles wide and 


shed, 


dark: 


Too many sighs give we to them in fee, 


Half-ignorant, they turn'd an easy wheel. 


Too much of pity after they are dead, 


That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and 


Too many doleful stories do we see. 


peel. 


Whose matter in bright gold were best 




be read; 


XVI 


Except in such a page where Theseus' 


Why were they proud ? Because their 


spouse 


marble founts 


Over the pathless waves towards him bows. 


Gush'd with more pride than do a 




wretch's tears ? — 


XIII 


Why were they proud ? Because fair 


But, for the general award of love, 


orange-mounts 


The little sweet doth kill much bitter- 


Were of more soft ascent than lazar 


ness; 


stairs ? — 


Though Dido silent is in under-grove, 


Why were they proud ? Because red- 


And Isabella's was a great distress, 


lined accounts 


Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian 


Were richer than the songs of Grecian 


clove 


years ? — 


Was not embalm'd, this truth is not the 


Why were they proud ? again we ask 


less — 


aloud. 


Even bees, the little almsmen of spring- 


Why in the name of Glory were they 


bowers. 


proud ? 


Know there is richest juice in poison- 




flowers. 


XVII 




Yet were these Florentines as self-retired 


XIV 


In hungry pride and gainful cowardice. 


With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt. 


As two close Hebrews in that land inspired. 


Enriched from ancestral merchandise. 


Paled in and vineyarded from beggar- 


And for them many a weary hand did swelt 


spies; 


In torched mines and noisy factories. 


The hawks of ship-mast forests — the uu- 


And many once proud-quiver'd loins did 


tired 


melt 


And pannier'd mules for dufeats and old 


In blood from stinging whip; — with 


lies — 


hollow eyes 


Quick cat's-paws on the generous stiay- 


Many all day in dazzling river stood. 


away, — 


To take the rich-ored drif tings of the flood. 


Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay. 



ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 



How was it these same ledger-men could 

spy 

Fair Isabella in her downy nest ? 
How could they find out in Lorenzo's eye 
A straying from his toil ? Hot Egypt's 
pest 
Into their vision covetous and sly ! 

How could these money-bags see east 
and west ? — 
Yet so they did — and every dealer fair 
Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare. 



O eloquent and famed Boccaccio ! 

Of thee we now should ask forgiving 
boon, 
And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow, 

And of thy roses amorous of the moon, 
And of thy lilies, that do paler grow 

Now they can no more hear thy ghittern's 
tune, 
For venturing syllables that ill beseem 
The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme. 



Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale 
Shall move on soberly, as it is meet; 

There is no other crime, no mad assail 
To make old prose in modern rhyme 
more sweet: 

But it is done — succeed the verse or fail — 
To honour thee, and thy gone spirit 
greet; 

To stead thee as a verse in English tongue, 

An echo of thee in the north-wind sung. 

XXI 

These brethren having found by many 
signs 
What love Lorenzo for their sister had. 
And how she loved him too, each unconfines 
His bitter thoughts to other, well-nigh 
mad 
That he, the servant of their trade designs. 
Should in their sister's love be blithe and 
glad, 



When 't was their plan to coax I 

grees 
To some high noble and his olive-t 

XXII 

And many a jealous conference had t 
And many times they bit their lips a 

Before they flx'd upon a surest way 
To make the youngster for his cri 
atone ; 

And at the last, these men of cruel clay 
Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone 

For they resolved in some forest dim 

To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him. 

XXIII 

So on a pleasant morning, as he leant 
Into the sunrise, o'er the balustrade 

Of the garden-terrace, towards him they 
bent 
Their footing through the dews; and to 
him said, 

' You seem there in the quiet of content, 
Lorenzo, and we are most loth jto invade 

Calm speculation; but if you are wise. 

Bestride your steed while cold is in the skies. 

XXIV 

' To-day we purpose, aye, this hour we 
mount 
To spur three leagues towards the Apen- 
nine; 
Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun 
count 
His dewy rosary on the eglantine.' 
Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont, 
Bow'd a fair greeting to these serpents' 
whine ; 
And went in haste, to get in readiness, 
With belt, and spur, and bracing hunts- 
man's dress. 



And as he to the court-yard pass'd along, 
Each third step did he pause, and lis- 
ten'd oft 

If he could hear his lady's matin-song, ~" 
Or the light whisper of her footstep soft; 



THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



s thus over his passion hung, 
ard a laugh full musical aloft; 
looking up, he saw her features 
bright 
through an in-door lattice, all delight. 

XXVI 

-ve, Isabel! ' said he, ' I was in pain 
i-.est I should miss to bid thee a good 
morrow: 
Jh ! what if I should lose thee, when so 
fain 
I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow 
Of a poor three hours' absence ? but we '11 
gain 
Out of the amorous dark what day doth 
borrow. 
Good bye ! I '11 soon be back.' — ' Good 

bye ! ' said she : — 
And as he went she chanted n^errily. 

XXVII 

So the two brothers and their murder'd 
man 
Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno's 
stream 
Gurgles through straighten'd banks, and 
still doth fan 
Itself with dancing bulrush, and the 
bream 
Keeps head against thte freshets. Sick and 
wan 
The brothers' faces in the ford did seem, 
Lorenzo's flush with love. — They pass'd the 

water 
Into a forest quiet for the slaughter. 

XXVIII 

There was Lorenzo slain and buried in, 
There in that forest did his great love 
cease ; 
Ah ! when a soul doth thus its freedom 
win, 
It aches in loneliness — is ill at peace 
As the break-covert bloodhounds of such 
sin: 
They dipp'd their swords in the water, 
and did tease 



Their horses homeward, with convulsed 

spur. 
Each richer by his being a murderer. 



They told their sister how, with sudden 
speed, 

Lorenzo had ta'en ship for foreign lands. 
Because of some great urgency and need 

In their affairs, requiring trusty hands. 
Poor Girl ! put on thy stifling widow's weed, 

And 'scape at once from Hope's accursed! 
bands ; 
To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow, 
And the next day will be a day of sorrow. 

XXX 
She weeps alone for pleasures not to be; 

Sorely she wept until the night came on. 
And then, instead of love, O misery ! 

She brooded o'er the luxury alone: 
His image in the dusk she seem'd to see, 

And to the silence made a gentle moan, 
Spreading her perfect arms upon the air, 
And on her couch low murmuring, 
' Where ? O where ? ' 



But Selfishness, Love's cousin, held not long 
Its fiery vigil in her single breast; 

She fretted for the golden hour, and hung 
Upon the time with feverish unrest — 

Not long — for soon into her heart a throng 
Of higher occupants, a richer zest. 

Came tragic; passion not to be subdued. 

And sorrow for her love in travels rude. 



In the mid days of autumn, on their eves 
The breath of Winter comes from far 
away, 

And the sick west continually bereaves 
Of some gold tinge, and plays a rounde- 
lay 

Of death among the bushes and the leaves, 
To make all bare before he dares to stray 

From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel 

By gradual decay from beauty fell, 



ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 



"5 





To speak as when on earth it was awake. 


XXXIII 


And Isabella on its music hung: 


Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes 


Languor there was in it, and tremulous 


She ask'd her brothers, with an eye all 


shake. 


pale, 


As in a palsied Druid's harp unstrung; 


Striving to be itself, what dungeon climes 


And through it moan'd a ghostly under- 


Could keep him off so long ? They spake 


song, 


a tale 


Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars 


Time after time, to quiet her. Their 


among. 


crimes 




Came on them, like a smoke from Hin- 


XXXVII 


nom's vale; 


Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy 


And every night in dreams they groan'd 


bright 


aloud, 


With love, and kept all phantom fear 


To see their sister in her snowy shroud. 


aloof 




From the poor girl by magic of their light. 


XXXIV 


The while it did unthread the horrid 


And she had died in drowsy ignorance. 


woof 


But for a thing more deadly dark than 


Of the late darken' d time, — the murder- 


all; 


ous spite 


It came like a fierce potion, drunk by 


Of pride and avarice, — the dark pine 


chance, 


roof 


Which saves a sick man from the feath- 


In the forest, — and the sodden turfed 


er'd pall 


dell. 


For some few gasping moments; like a 


Where, without any word, from stabs he 


lance, 


fell. 


Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall 




With cruel pierce, and bringing him again 


XXXVIII 


Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and 


Saying moreover, ' Isabel, my sweet ! 


brain. 


Red whortleberries droop above my 




head. 


XXXV 


And a large flint-stone weighs upon my 


It was a vision. — In the drowsy gloom. 


feet; 


The dull of midnight, at her couch's foot 


Around me beeches and high chestnuts 


Lorenzo stood, and wept: the forest tomb 


shed 


Had marr'd his glossy hair which once 


Their leaves and prickly uuts; a sheepfold 


could shoot 


bleat 


Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom 


Conies from beyond the river to my bed: 


Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute 


Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom, 


From his lorn voice, and past his loamed 


And it shall comfort me within the tomb. 


ears 
Had made a miry channel for his tears. 


XXXIX 




' I am a shadow now, alas ! alas ! 


XXXVI 


Upon the skirts of human nature dwell- 


Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow 


ing 


spake ; 


Alone: I chant alone the holy mass, 


For there was striving, in its piteous 


While little sounds of life are round me 


tongue. 


knelling. 



ii6 



THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass, 
And many a chapel bell the hour is tell- 
ing. 

Paining me through: those sounds grow 
strange to me, 

And thou art distant in Humanity. 



* I know what was, I feel full well what is, 

And I should rage, if spirits could go 
mad; 
Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss, 
That paleness warms my grave, as 
though I had 
A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss 
To be my spouse: thy paleness makes 
me glad; 
Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel 
A greater love through all my essence 
steal.' 

XLI 

The Spirit mourn'd ' Adieu ! ' — dissolved, 
and left 
The atom darkness in a slow turmoil; 
As when of healthful midnight sleep be- 
reft, 
Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless 
toil. 
We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft, 
And see the spangly gloom froth up and 
boil: 
It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache, 
And in the dawn she started up awake 

XLII 

* Ha ! ha ! ' said she, ' I knew not this hard 

life, 
I thought the worst was simple misery; 
1 thought some Fate with pleasure or with 
strife 
Portion'd us — happy days, or else to 
die; 
But there is crime — a brother's bloody 
knife ! 
Sweet Spirit, thou hast school'd my in- 
fancy : 
I '11 visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes, 
And greet thee morn and even in the skies.' 



When the full morning came, she had de- 
vised 
How she might secret to the forest hie; 
How she might find the clay, so dearly 
prized, 
And sing to it one latest lullaby; 
How her short absence might be unsur- 
mised. 
While she the inmost of the dream would 
try. 
Resolved, she took with her an aged nurse. 
And went into that dismal forest-hearse. 



See, as they creep along the river side. 
How she doth whisper to that aged 
Dame, 
And, after looking round the champaign 
wide. 
Shows her a knife. — ' What feverous 
hectic flame 
Burns in thee, child ? — what good can 
thee betide. 
That thou shouldst smile again ? ' — 
The evening came, 
And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed; 
The flint was there, the berries at his head. 



Who hath not loiter'd in a green church- 
yard. 
And let his spirit, like a demon-mole, 
Work through the clayey soil and gravel 
hard, 
To see skull, coffin'd bones, and funeral 
stole ; 
Pitying each form that hungry Death hath 
marr'd. 
And filling it once more with human soul ? 
Ah ! this is holiday to what was felt 
When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt. 



She gazed into the fresh-thrown mould, as 
though 
One glance did fully all its secrets tell; 



Jl 



ISABELLA, \ >R THE POT OF BASIL 



"7 



Clearly she saw, as other eyes would i > 
Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal \ 

Upon the murderous spot she seem 
grow. 
Like to a native lily of the dell: 

Then with her knife, all sudden, she began 

To dig more fervently than misers can. 

XLVII 

Soon she tnrn'd up a soiled glove, whereon 
Her silk had play'd in purple phanta- 
sies: 
She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than 
stone. 
And put it in her bosom, where it dries 
And freezes utterly unto the bone 

Those dainties made to still an infant's 
cries; 
Then 'gan she work again; nor stay'd her 

care. 
But to throw back at times her veiling hair. 

XLVIII 
That old nurse stood beside her wonder- 
ing, 
Until her heart felt pity to the core 
At sight of such a dismal labouring. 

And so she kneeled, with her locks all 
hoar, 
And put her lean hands to the horrid 
thing : 
Three hours they labour'd at this travail 
sore: 
At last they felt the kernel of the grave. 
And Isabella did not stamp and rave. 

XLIX 

Ah ! wherefore all this wormy circum- 
stance ? 
Why linger at the yawning tomb so 
long ? 
O for the gentleness of old Romance, 

The simple plaining of a minstrel's song ! 
Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance. 
For here, in truth, it doth not well be- 
long 
To speak : — O turn thee to the very tale. 
And taste the music of that vision pale. 



' iib duller steel than the Persian sword 
iiiey cut away no formless monster's 
head, 
But one, whose gentleness did well accord 
With death, as life. The ancient harps 
have said, 
Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord : 

If Love impersonate was ever dead, 
Pale Isabella kiss'd it, and low moan'd. 
'Twas love; cold, — dead indeed, but not 
dethron'd. 



In anxious secrecy they took it home, 

And then the prize was all for Isabel: 
She calm'd its wild hair with a golden 
comb. 
And all around each eye's sepulchral cell 
Pointed each fringed lash; the smeared 
loam 
With tears, as chilly as a dripping well, 
She drench'd away: and still she comb'd, 

and kept 
Sighing all day — and still she kiss'd and 
wept. 



Then in a silken scarf, — sweet with the 
dews 
Of precious flowers pluck'd in Araby, 
And divine liquids come with odorous ooze 
Through the cold serpent-pipe refresh- 
fully,- 
She wrapp'd it up; and for its tomb did 
choose 
A garden-pot, wherein she laid it by, 
And cover'd it with mould, and o'er it set 
Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet. 



And she forgot the stars, the moon, and 

sun. 

And she forgot the blue above the trees. 

And she forgot the dells where waters 

run. 

And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze ; 



THE POEKo OF i5io-i8i9 



She had no knowledge when the day v/as 

done, 
And the new morn she saw not: but in 

peace 
Hung over her sweet Basil evermore, 
And moisten'd it with tears unto the core. 

LIV 
And so she ever fed it with thin tears, 
Whence thick, and green, and beautiful 
it grew, 
So that it smelt more balmy than its peers 

Of Basil-tufts in Florence; for it drew 
Nurture besides, and life, from human 
fears. 
From the fast mouldering head there 
shut from view: 
So that the jewel, safely casketed, 
Came forth, and in perfumed leafits spread. 



O Melancholy, linger here awhile ! 

O Music, Music, breathe despoudingly ! 
O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle, 

Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh ! 
Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and 
smile; 

Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily. 
And make a pale light in your cypress 

glooms. 
Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. 

Lvr 

Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe, 

Fi'om the deep throat of sad Melpomene ! 

Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go. 
And touch the strings into a mystery; 

Sound mournfully upon the winds and low ; 
For simple Isabel is soon to be 

Among the dead: She withers, like a palm 

Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm. 



O leave the palm to wither by itself; 

Let not quick Winter chill its dying 
hour ! — 
It may not be — those Baalites of pelf. 

Her brethren, noted the continual shower 



F 



dead eyes; and many a curious 



Among her kindred, wonder'd that such 
dower 
Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside 
By one mark'd out to be a Noble's bride. 

LVIII 

And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd 
much 
Why she sat drooping by the Basil green. 
And why it flourish'd, as by magic touch ; 
Greatly they wonder'd what the thing 
might mean: 
They could not surely give belief, that such 
A very nothing would have power to 
wean 
Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures 

gay. 
And even i-emembrance of her love's delay. 



Therefore they watch'd a time when they 
might sift 
This hidden whim ; and long they watch'd 
in vain; 
For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift. 
And seldom felt she any hunger-pain: 
And when she left, she hurried back, as 
swift 
As bird on wing to breast its eggs again: 
And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there 
Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair. 

LX 

Yet they contrived to steal the Basil-pot, 

And to examine it in secret place: 
The thing was vile with green and livid 

spot. 
And yet they knew it was Lorenzo's face: 
The guerdon of their murder they had got. 
And so left Florence in a moment's space. 
Never to turn again. — Away they went, 
With blood upon their heads, to banishment. 



O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away ! 
O Music, Music, breathe despondiugly ! 



I 



FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO MAIA 



119 



O Echo, Echo, on some other day. 

From isles Lethean, sigh to us — O 
sigh ! 
Spirits of grief, siug not your ' Well-a- 
way ! ' 
For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die ; 
Will die a death too lone and incomplete, 
Now they have ta'en away her Basil sweet. 

LXII 

Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless 
things. 
Asking for her lost Basil amorously: 
And with melodious chuckle in the strings 
Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would 
cry 
After the Pilgrim in his wanderings. 

To ask him where her Basil was ; and why 
'Twas hid from her: 'For cruel 'tis,' said 

she, 
' To steal my Basil-pot away from me.' 



And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, 
Imploring for her Basil to the last. 

No heart was there in Florence but did 
mourn 
In pity of her love, so overcast. 

And a sad ditty of this story born 

From mouth to mouth through all the 
country pass'd : 

Still is the burthen sung — * O cruelty. 

To steal my Basil-pot away from me ! ' 



TO HOMER 

The date 1818 was affixed to this by Lord 
Houghton in Life., Letters and Literary Be- 
mains, where it was first published, and is found 
also where it occurs in the Dilke manuscripts. 
In a letter to Reynolds, dated April 27, 1818, 
Keats writes eagerly of his desire to study 
Greek. 

Standing aloof in giant ignorance, 
Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades, 

As one who sits ashore and longs perchance 
To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas. 



So thou wast blind ! — but then the veil 
was rent. 
For Jove uncurtain'd Heaven to let thee 
live. 
And Neptune made for thee a spumy tent, 
And Pan made sing for thee his forest- 
hive; 
Ay on the shores of darkness there is 
light. 
And precipices show untrodden green; 
There is a budding morrow in midnight; 
There is a triple sight in blindness 
keen: 
Such seeing hadst thou, as it once befell 
To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven, 
and Hell. 



FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO 
MAIA 

Copied in a letter to Reynolds, dated May .3, 
1818, in which Keats says : ' With respect to 
the affections and Poetry you must know by a 
sjrmpathy my thoughts that way, and I dare 
say these few lines will be but a ratification : I 
wrote them on May day — and intend to finish 
the ode all in good time ; ' a purpose appar- 
ently never accomplished. 

Mother of Hermes ! and still youthful 
Maia! 
May I sing to thee 
As thou wast hymned on the shores of 
Baiae ? 
Or may I woo thee 
In earlier Sicilian ? or thy smiles 
Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian 

isles. 
By bards who died content on pleasant 
sward. 
Leaving great verse unto a little clan ? 
O, give me their old vigour, and unheard 
Save of the quiet Primrose, and the span 
Of heaven and few ears. 
Rounded by thee, my song should die away 

Content as theirs, ^ 

Rich in the simple worship of a day. 



THE POEMS OF 1818-18 



I8-I8I9 



SONG 

First published in Life, Letters and Literary 
Remains, and there dated 1818. 



Hush, hush ! tread softly ! hush, hush, my 
dear ! 
All the house is asleep, but we know very 
well 
That the jealous, the jealous old bald-pate 
may hear, 
Tho' you 've padded his night-cap — O 
sweet Isabel ! 
Tho' your feet are more light than a 

Faery's feet, 
Who dances on bubbles where brook- 
lets meet, — 
Hush, hush ! soft tiptoe ! hush, hush, my 

dear ! 
For less than a nothing the jealous can 
hear. 



No leaf doth tremble, no ripple is there 
On the river, — all 's still, and the night's 
sleepy eye 
Closes up, and forgets all its Lethean 
care, 
Charm'd to death by the drone of the 
humming May-fly; 
And the Moon, whether prudish or 

complaisant, 
Has fled to her bower, well knowing I 
want 
No light in the dusk, no torch in the gloom, 
But my Isabel's eyes, and her lips pulp'd 
with bloom. 

Ill 
Lift the latch ! ah gently ! ah tenderly — 
sweet ! 
We are dead if that latchet gives one 
little clink ! 
Well done — now those lips, and a flowery 
seat — 
The old man may sleep, and the planets 
may wink; 



The shut rose shall dream of our loves 

and awake 
Full-blown, and such warmth for the 
morning take. 
The stock-dove shall hatch her soft brace 

and shall coo. 
While I kiss to the melody, aching all 
through. 



VERSES WRITTEN DURING A 
TOUR IN SCOTLAND 

Keats saw his brother George and wife set 
sail from Liverpool at the end of June, 1818, 
and then set forth with his friend Charles 
Armitage Brown on a walking tour through 
Wordsworth's country and into Scotland. The 
verses included in this section were all sent in 
letters, chiefly to his brother Tom. He did not 
include any in the volume which he published 
in 1820, and they first saw the light when Lord 
Houghton included them in the Life, Letters 
and Literary Remains. The more off-hand and 
familiar verses written at this time are given in 
the Appendix. 



ON VISITING THE TOMB OF BUR^f's 

Written at Dumfries on the evening of July 
1, 1818. ' Burns's tomb,' writes Keats, ' is in 
the Churchyard corner, not very much to my , 
taste, though on a scale large enough to show . 
they wanted to honour him. This Sonnet I have 
written in a strange mood, half asleep. I know 
not how it is, the Clouds, the Sky, the Houses, 
all seem anti-Grecian and anti-Charlemagnish.' 

The Town, the churchyard, and the setting 
sun, 
The Clouds, the trees, the rounded hills 

all seem. 
Though beautiful, cold — strange — as 
in a dream, 
I dreamed long ago, now new begun. 
The short-lived, paly Summer is but won 1 
From Winter's ague, for one hour's 1 

gleam; 
Though sapphire-warm, their Stars do 
never beam: 






VERSES WRITTEN DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 121 



All is cold Beauty; pain is never done: 
For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise, 
The Real of Beauty, free from that dead 
hue 
Sickly imagination and sick pride 
Cast wan upon it ! Burns ! with honour 
due 
I oft have honour'd thee. Great 
shadow, hide 
Thy face; I sin against thy native skies. 



TO AILSA ROCK 

The tourists crossed to Ireland for a short 
trip, and after returning' to Scotland, made 
their way into Ayrshire, entering' it a little 
beyond Cairn. Their walk led them into 
a long wooded glen. ' At the end,' writes 
Keats, July 10, 1818, ' we had a gradual ascent 
and got among the tops of the mountains 
whence in a little time I descried in the Sea 
Ailsa Rock, 940 feet high — it was 15 MUes 
distant and seemed close upon us. The effect 
of Ailsa with the peculiar perspective of the 
Sea in connection with the ground we stood on, 
and the misty rain then falling gave me a com- 
plete Idea of a deluge. AUsa struck me very 
suddenly — really I was a little alarmed.' 

Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid ! 
Give answer from thy voice, the sea- 
fowls' screams ! 
When were thy shoulders mantled in 
huge streams ? 
When, from the sun, was thy broad fore- 
head hid ? 
How long is 't since the mighty power bid 
Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom 

dreams ? 
Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams, 
Or when gray clouds are thy cold coverlid. 
Thou answer'st not; for thou art dead 
asleep; 
Thy life is but two dead eternities — 
The last in air, the former in the deep; 
First with the whales, last with the eagle- 
skies — 



Drown'd wast thou till an earthquake made 
thee steep. 
Another cannot wake thy giant size. 



Ill 



WRITTEN IN THE COTTAGE WHERE 
BURNS WAS BORN 

From Kingswell's, July 13, 1818, Keats 
wrote of his experience in visiting Burns's 
birthplace : ' The approach to it [Ayr] is ex- 
tremely fine — quite outwent my expectations 

— richly meadowed, wooded, heathed and riv- 
uleted — with a grand Sea view terminated 
by the black Mountains of the isle of Annan. 
As soon as I saw them so nearby I said to my- 
self, " How is it they did not beckon Burns 
to some grand attempt at Epic ? " The bonny 
Doon is the sweetest river I ever saw — over- 
hung with fine trees as far as we could see 

— We stood some time on the Brig across it, 
over which Tam o' Shanter fled — we took a 
pinch of snuff on the Keystone — then we 
proceeded to the " auld Kirk Alloway." As 
we were looking at it a Farmer pointed the 
spots where Mungo's Mither hang'd hersel' 
and " drunken Charlie brake 's neck's bane." 
Then we proceeded to the Cottage he was born 
in — there was a board to that effect by the 
door side — it had the same effect as the same 
sort of memorial at Stratford on Avon. We 
drank some Toddy to Burns's memory with an 
old Man who knew Burns — damn him and 
damn his anecdotes — he was a great bore — 
it was impossible for a Southron to understand 
above 5 words in a hundred. — There was 
something good in his description of Burns's 
melancholy the last time he saw him. I was 
determiried to write a sonnet in the Cottage — 
I did — but it was so bad I cannot venture it 
here.' He wrote in the same strain to Rey- 
nolds, saying, ' I wrote a sonnet for the mere 
sake of writing some lines under the Roof — 
they are so bad I cannot transcribe them. . . . 
I cannot write about scenery and ■visitings — 
Fancy is indeed less than a present palpable 
reality, but it is greater than remembrance. 
. . . One song of Burns's is of more worth to 
you than all I could think for a whole year in 
his native country.' 



122 



THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



This mortal body of a thousand days 
Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own 
room. 
Where thou didst dream alone on budded 
bays, 
Happy and thoughtless of thy day of 
doom ! 
My pulse is warm with thine old Barley- 
bree. 
My head is light with pledging a great 
soul. 
My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see, 
Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal; 
Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor, 
Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find 
The meadow thou hast tramped o'er and 
o'er, — 
Yet can I think of thee till thought is 
blind, — 
Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name, — 
O smile among the shades, for this is fame ! 



AT FINGAL'S cave 

The verses which follow were first printed 
in Life^ Letters and Literary Remains. They 
occur in a letter to Tom Keats from Oban, 
July 26, 1818, and were preceded by this de- 
scription : ' I am puzzled how to give you an 
Idea of StafPa. It can only be represented by 
a first-rate drawing. One may compare the 
surface of the Island to a roof — this roof is 
supported by grand pillars of basalt standing 
together as thick as honeycombs. The finest 
thing ' Fingal's cave — it is entirely a hollow- 
ing out of Basalt Pillars. Suppose now the 
Giants who rebelled against Jove had taken a 
whole Mass of black Columns and bound them 
together like bunches of matches — and then 
with immense axes had made a cavern in the 
body of these columns — Of course the roof 
and floor must be composed of the broken ends 
of the Columns — such is Fingal's cave, except 
that the Sea has done the work of excavations, 
and is continually dashing there — so that we 
walk along the sides of the cave on the pillars 
which are left as if for convenient stairs. The 



roof is arched somewhat gothic-wise, and the 
length of some of the entire side-pillars is fifty 
feet. About the island you might seat an 
army of men each on a pillar. The length of 
the Cave is 120 feet, and from its extremity 
the view into the sea, through the large arch 
at the entrance — the colour of the column is 
a sort of black with a lurking gloom of purple 
therein. For solenmity and grandeur it far 
surpasses the finest Cathedral. At the ex- 
tremity of the Cave there is a small perfora- 
tion into another Cave, at which the waters 
meeting and buffeting each other there is some- 
times produced a report as of a cannon heard as 
far as lona, which must be 12 miles. As we 
approached in the boat, there was such a fine 
swell of the sea that the pillars appeared rising 
immediately out of the crystal. But it is im- 
possible to describe it.' 

Not Aladdin magian 

Ever such a work began; 

Not the wizard of the Dee 

Ever such a dream could see; 

Not St. John, in Patmos' isle. 

In the passion of his toil. 

When he saw the churches seven. 

Golden aisled, built up in heaven. 

Gazed at such a rugged wonder. 

As I stood its roofing under. 

Lo ! I saw one sleeping there. 

On the marble cold and bare; 

While the surges wash'd his feet. 

And his garments white did beat 

Drench'd about the sombre rocks; 

On his neck his well-grown locks, 

Lifted dry above the main. 

Were upon the curl again. 

' What is this ? and what art thou ? ' 

Whisper'd I, and touch'd his brow; 

' What art thou ? and what is this ? ' 

Whisper'd I, and strove to kiss 

The spirit's hand, to wake his eyes; 

Up he started in a trice: 

' I am Lycidas,' said he, 

' Famed in funeral minstrelsy ! 

This was architectured thus 

By the great Oceanus ! — 

Here his mighty waters play 



TO A LADY SEEN FOR A FEW MOMENTS AT VAUXHALL 123 



Hollow organs all the day ; 

Here, by turns, bis dolpbins all. 

Finny palmers, great and small, 

Come to pay devotion due, — 

Eacb a mouth of pearls must strew ! 

Many a mortal of these days 

Dares to pass our sacred ways; 

Dares to touch, audaciously, 

This cathedral of the sea ! 

I have been the pontiff-priest, 

Where the waters never rest, 

Where a fledgy sea-bird choir 

Soars for ever ! Holy fire 

I have hid from mortal man; 

Proteus is my Sacristan ! 

But the dulled eye of mortal 

Hath pass'd beyond the rocky portal; 

So for ever will I leave 

Such a taint, and soon unweave 

All the magic of the place.' 

So saying, with a Spirit's glance 

He dived ! 



WRITTEN UPON THE TOP OF BEN NEVIS 

Enclosed in a letter to Tom Keats from 
Letter Findlay, August 3, 1818. 

Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud 

Upon the top of Nevis, blind in mist ! 
I look into the chasms, and a shroud 

Vaporous doth hide them, — just so 
much I wist 
Mankind do know of hell ; I look o'erhead. 
And there is sullen mist, — even so much 
Mankind can tell of heaven; mist is spread 
Before the earth, beneath me, — even 
such. 
Even so vague is man's sight of himself ! 
Here are the craggy stones beneath my 
feet, — 
Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf, 
I tread on them, — that all my eye doth 
meet 
I& mist and crag, not only on this height. 
But in the world of thought and mental 
might ! 



TRANSLATION FROM A SONNET 
OF RONSARD 

Published in Life, Letters and Literary Re- 
mains in a letter to Reynolds, of which the 
probable date is September 22, 1818 ; in a let- 
ter to Charles Wentworth Dilke September 21, 
1818, Keats quotes the last line with the re- 
mark : ' You have passed your Romance, and 
I never gave in to it, or else I think this line a 
feast for one of your Lovers.' The text of 
the sonnet will be found in the Appendix. 

Nature withheld Cassandra in the skies, 
For more adornment, a full thousand 
years ; 
She took their cream of Beauty's fairest 
dyes, 
And shaped and tinted her above all 
Peers: 
Meanwhile Love kept her dearly with his 
wings, 
And underneath their shadow fill'd her 
eyes 
With such a richness that the cloudy Kings 

Of high Olympus utter'd slavish sighs. 
When from the Heavens I saw her first 
descend, 
My heart took fire, and only burning 
pains, 
They were my pleasures — they my Life's 
sad end; 
Love pour'd her beauty into my warm 
veins. 



TO A LADY SEEN FOR A FEW 
MOMENTS AT VAUXHALL 

First published in Hood\s Magazine for April 
1844, and afterward included in Life, Letters 
and Literary Remains. No date is given, and 
the poem is placed here from a fancied asso- 
ciation with the lady whom Keats saw at Hast- 
ings and who started the train of thought in 
his letter to his brother and sister, October 25, 
1818. 



124 



THE POEMS OF 1818-18 



ib-iaig 



Time's sea hath been five years at its slow 
ebb, 
Long hours have to and fro let creep the 
sand, 
Since I was tangled in thy beauty's web. 
And snared by the uugloving of thine 
hand. 
And yet I never look on midnight sky, 
But I behold thine eyes' well-memoried 
light; 
I cannot look upon the rose's dye, 

But to thy cheek my soul doth take its 
flight ; 
I cannot look on any budding flower, 

But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips 
And hearkening for a love-sound, doth de- 
vour 
Its sweets in the wrong sense : — Thovi 
dost eclipse 
Every delight with sweet remembering, 
And grief unto my darling joys dost bring. 

FANCY 

Keats enclosed these lines, as lately written, 
in a letter to George and Georgiana Keats, 
January 2, 1819. He included the poem in the 
1820 volume. Mr. John KJaowles Paine has 
published a cantata for soprano solo, chorus, 
and orchestra, entitled The Realm of Fancy, 
using these lines for his book. 

Ever let the Fancy roam. 

Pleasure never is at home: 

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth. 

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; 

Then let winged Fancy wander 

Through the thought still spread beyond 

her: 
Open wide the mind's cage-door. 
She '11 dart forth, and cloudward soar. 
O sweet Fancy ! let her loose; 
Summer's joys are spoilt by use, lo 

And the enjoj'ing of the Spring 
Fades as does its blossoming; 
Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too, 
Blushing through the mist and dew, 
Cloys with tasting : What do then ? 



Sit thee by the ingle, when 

The sear faggot blazes bright, 

Spirit of a winter's night; 

When the soundless earth is muffled, 

And the caked snow is shuffled 20 

From the ploughboy's heavy shoon; 

When the Night doth meet the Noon 

In a dark conspiracy 

To banish Even from her sky. 

Sit thee there, and send abroad, 

With a mind self-overawed, 

Fancy, high-commission'd: — send her ! 

She has vassals to attend her: 

She will bring, in spite of frost, 

Beauties that the earth hath lost; 30 

She will bring thee, all together, 

All delights of summer weather; 

All the buds and bells of May, 

From dewy sward or thorny spray; 

All the heaped Autumn's wealth. 

With a still, mj'sterious stealth: 

She will mix these pleasures up 

Like three fit wines in a cup, 

And thou shalt quaff it: — thou shalt hear 

Distant harvest-carols clear; 40 

Rustle of the reaped corn; 

Sweet birds antheming the morn : 

And, in the same moment — hark ! 

'T is the early April lark, 

Or the rooks, with busy caw, 

Foraging for sticks and straw. 

Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 

The daisy and the marigold; 

White-plumed lilies, and the first 

Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst ; 50 

Shaded hyacinth, alway 

Sapphire queen of the mid-May; 

And every leaf, and every flower 

Pearled with the self-same shower. 

Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 

Meagre from its celled sleep; 

And the snake all winter-thin 

Cast on sunny bank its skin; 

Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 

Hatcliing in the hawthorn- tree, 60 

Wheji the hen-bird's wing doth rest 

Quid on her mossy nest; 



SONG 



^25 



Thi^ %he hurry and alarm 
When the bee-hive casts its swarm ; 
Acorns ripe down-pattering 
While the autumn breezes sing. 

Oh, sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
Every thing is spoilt by use; 
Where 's the cheek that doth not fade, 
Too much gazed at ? Where 's the maid td 
Whose lip mature is ever new ? / 

Where 's the eye, however blue, 
Doth not weary ? Where 's the face 
One would meet in every place ? 
Where 's the voice, however soft. 
One would hear so very oft ? 
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 
Let, then, winged Fancy find 
Thee a mistress to thy mind: 80 

Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter 
E>e the God of Torment taught her 
How to frown and how to chide; 
With a waist and with a side 
White as Hebe's, when her zone 
Slipt its golden clasp, and down 
Fell her kirtle to her feet, 
While she held the goblet sweet, 
And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 
Of the Fancy's silken leash; go 

Quickly break her prison-string, 
And such joys as these she 'U bring. — 
Let the winged Fancy roam, 
Pleasure never is at home. 



ODE 

Written on the blank page before Beaumont 
and Fletcher's tragi-eomedy, The Fair Maid of 
the Inn, and addressed thus to these bards in 
particular. Sent in a letter to George and Geor- 
giana Keats, January 2, 1819. It is included 
in the 1820 volume. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Have ye souls in heaven too, 
Double-lived in regions new ? 
Yes, and those of heaven commune 



With the spheres of sun an' ii'->o"r 
With the noise of fountains wond'rous 
And the parle of voices thund'rous ; 
With the whisper of heaven's trees 
And one another, in soft ease 1 

Seated on Elysian lawns 
Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; 
Underneath large blue-bells tented, 
Where the daisies are rose-scented. 
And the rose herself has got 
Perfume which on earth is not; 
Where the nightingale doth sing 
Not a senseless, tranced thing. 
But divine melodious truth; 
Philosophic numbers smooth; : 

Tales and golden histories 
Of heaven and its mysteries. 

Thus ye live on high, and then 
On the earth ye live again; 
And the souls ye left behind you 
Teach us, here, the way to find you. 
Where your other souls are joying, 
Never slumber'd, never cloying. 
Here, your earth-born souls still speak 
To mortals, of their little week; ; 

Of their sorrows and delights; 
Of their passions and their spites; 
Of their glory and their shame ; 
What doth strengthen and what maim. 
Thus ye teach us, every day, 
Wisdom, though fled far away. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Ye have souls in heaven too, 
Double-lived in regfions new ! < 



SONG 

' There is just room, I see, in this page to 
copy a little thing I wrote off to some Music 
as it was playing.' Keats to George and 
Georgiana Keats, January 2, 1819. 

I HAD a dove and the sweet dove died; 
And I have thought it died of grieving: 



12G 



THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



Id it grieve for ? Its feet 
led, 
With a su-^en thread of my own hand's 
weaving; 
Sweet little red feet ! why should you 

die — 
Why should you leave me, sweet bird ! 

why? 
You lived alone in the forest-tree. 
Why, pretty thing ! would you not live 

with me ? 
I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas; 
Why not live sweetly, as in the green 
trees ? 



ODE ON MELANCHOLY 

Published in Lamia, Isabella, the Eve of St. 
Agnes and other Poems, 1820. There is no 
date affixed to it, but if it takes its color at 
all from Keats's own experience, it might not 
be amiss to refer it to the early part of 1819, 
when he had come under the influence of his 
passion for Fanny Brawne. In a letter to 
Haydon, written between January 7 and 14, 
1819, Keats says : ' I have been writing a little 
now and then lately : but nothing to speak of 
— being discontented and as it were moulting. 
Yet I do not think I shall ever come to the 
rope or the pistol. For after a day or two's 
melancholy, although I smoke more and more 
my own insufficiency — I see by little and lit- 
tle more of what is to be done, and how it is 
to be done, should I ever be able to do it.' 

Lord Houghton, in the Aldine edition of 
1876, makes the following prefatory note : 
' A singular instance of Keats's delicate per- 
ception occurred in the composition of this 
Ode. In the original manuscript he had in- 
tended to represent the vulgar conception of 
Melancholy with gloom and horror, in contrast 
with the emotion that incites to — 

" glut thy soiTow on a morning rose 
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, 
Or on the wealth of globed peonies ; '' 

and which essentially 

" lives in Beauty — Beauty that must die, 
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips 
Bidding adieu." 



The first stanza, therefore, was the foil ng: 
as grim a passage as Blake or Fuseli vuuld 
have dreamed and painted : — 

" Though you should build a bark of dead men's bones, 
And rear a platform gibbet for a mast, 
Stitch shrouds together for a sail, with groans 

To fill it out, blood-stained and aghast ; 
Although your rudder be a dragon's tail 
Long sever'd, yet still hard with agony, 
Tour cordage large uprootings from the skull 
Of bald Medusa, certes you would fail 
To find the Melancholy — whether she 
Dreameth in any isle of Lethe dull." 

But no sooner was this written, than the poet 
became conscious that the coarseness of the 
contrast would destroy the general effect of 
luxiuious tenderness which it was the object 
of the poem to produce, and he confined the^ 
gross notion of Melancholy to less violent im- 
ages, and let the ode at once begin, — ' 

No, no ! go not to Lethe, neither twist 
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisot:- 
ous wine; 
Nor suflPer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd 

By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; 
Make not your rosary of yew-berries. 
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth 
be 
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy 
owl 
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; 
For shade to shade will come too drows- 

iiy, 

And drown the wakeful anguish of the 
soul. 

But when the melancholy fit shall fall 
Sudden from heaven like a weeping 
cloud, 
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all. 
And hides the green hill in an April 
shroud ; 
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose. 
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, 
Or on the wealth of globed peonies; 
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, 
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, 
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless 
eyes. 



THE EVE OF S' 



■S.A'NF:. 



ES 



127 



She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that 
must die; 
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his 
lips 
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, 
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth 
sips: 
Aye, in the very temple of Delight 

Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, 
Though seen of none save him whose 
strenuous tongue 
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate 
fine; 
His soul shall taste the sadness of her 
might, 
And be among her cloudy trophies 
hung. 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 

Begun early in 1819. In a letter to George 
and Georgiana Keats, dated February 14, 1819, 
Keats says : ' I was nearly a fortnight at Mr. 
John Snook's and a few days at old Mr. Dilke's 
(Chichester in Hampshire). Nothing worth 
j speaking of happened at either place. I took 
i down some t hin pap er and wrote on it a little 
I poem called St. Agnes's Eve.' The poem 
underwent a great deal of revision, and was not 
in final form before September ; it was pub- 
lished in the 1820 volume. 



St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it 

was ! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; 
The hare limp'd trembling through the 

frozen grass. 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while 

he told 
His rosary, '^ ■ d whib his frosted breath. 
Like pious ■ • ma censer old, 
Seem'd ta' j - 1' "or heaven, without 

a def , 
Past the s :et Virgin - picture, while his 

pra . er he saith. 



Kis prayer he saith, this patient, holy 

man; 
Then takti his lamp, and riseth from his 

knees, 
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, 

wan. 
Along the <?.hapel aisle by slow degrees : 
The sculpturetl dead, on each side, seem 

to frees-e, 
Eroprison'd \n u ick, purgatorial rails: 
Knights, ladies, j i aying in dumb orat'ries. 
He passeth by; id his weak spirit fails 
To think how the\ may ache in icy hoods 

and mails. 



Noi 



neth through a little 



'■>Dr, 



And scarce th^ ^ steps, ere Music's 
golden tongue 

Flatter'd toi tears this aged man and 
poor; j 

But 1 ^ — all eady had his death-bell rung; 

The .j.> 'i' all his life were said and 
i.ing. 

His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' 
Eve: 

Anot'ier way he werit, and soon among 

Rough a">hes sat lie for his soul's re- 
prieve. 
And all night kept -.v^ake, for sinners' sake 
to grieve. 



That ancient Beadsman heard the pre- 
lude soft; 

And so it chanced, for many a door was 
wide. 

From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft. 

The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to 
chide: 

The level chambers, ready with their 
pride. 

Were glowing to receive a thousand 
q^uests: 

Tl rved angels, ever eager-eyed, 



\ 



128 



THK POLMS OF 1818-1819 



Stared, where upon tb ir be.jc.s the <!or- 
nice rests, 
With hair blown back, and wii> fs put ci oss- 
wise on their breasts. 



At length burst in the arge:it revelry, 
With plume, tiara, and all ^.'ioh array. 
Numerous as shadows haunting f airily 
The brain, new-stuff 'd, iifi youtVi with 

triumphs gay ' 

Of old romance. Thest; let wish 

away, 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one uady 

there, j 

Whose heart had brooded . all that ■; intry 

day. 
On love, and wing'd St Agues' luintly 

care, 
A.S she had heard old d»mes full jtnany 

times declare. ' 



They told her how, upon k>t. Agnes' Eve, 
Young virgins might ba"e visijns of 

delight, 
And soft adorings from ieir loves re- 
ceive 
Upon the honey'd middle of the night. 
If ceremonies due they did aright; 
As, supperless to bed they must retire, 
I And couch supine their beauties, lily 
' white ; 

Nor look behind, nor sideways, but re- 
quire 
)f Heaven with upward eyes for all that 
they desire. 



Full of this whim was thoughtful Made- 
line: 
The music, yearning like a God in pain, 
She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes 

divine, 
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping 

train 
Pass by — she heeded not at all : in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier. 



And back retired; not cool'd by high dis- 
dain, 

But she saw not: her heart was other- 
where ; 
She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest 
of the year. 

VIII 

She danced along with vague, regardless 

eyes. 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and 

short: 
The hallow'd hour was near at hand : she 

sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd 

resort 
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and 

scorn, 
Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort. 
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs un- 
shorn. 
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow 

morn. 

IX 

So, purposing each moment to retire. 
She linger'd still. Meantime, across the 

moors. 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart 

on fire 
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, 

and implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
But for one moment in the tedious hours, 
That he might gaze and worship all un- 
seen; 
Perchance speak, kneel touch, kiss — in 
sooth such Jii; 'b iiave btjen. 



He ventures in: ;< t no buzz'd whisper tell: 
All eyes be mul'ied, or a hund'/ed swords ■ 
Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rousj 

citadel : 
For him, those chambers held barbarian 

hordes, 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 



129 



Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, 


And as she mutter'd ' Well-a — well-a- 


Whose very dogs would execrations howl 


day!' 


Against his lineage: not one breast af- 


He found him in a little moonlight room, 


fords 


Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 


Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, 


'Now tell me where is Madeline,' said 


Save one old beldame, weak in body and in 


he. 


soul. 


* tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 


XI 


Which none but secret sisterhood may 


Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature 


see. 


came. 


When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving 


Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. 


piously.' 


To where he stood, hid from the torch's 




flame, 


XIV 


Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 


' St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agues' Eve — 


The sound of merriment and chorus 


Yet men will murder upon holy days: 


bland: 


Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 


He startled her; but soon she knew his 


And be liege-lord of all the Elve" avA 


face. 


Fays, 


And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied 


To venture so: it fills me with amaze 


hand. 


To see thee, Porphyro ! — Sr, Agues' 


Saying, ' Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee 


Eve! 


from this place; 


God's help ! my lady fair the 


They are all here to - night, the whole 


plays 


bloodthirsty race ! 


This very night: good angels her de- 


XII 


CGIVG ! 

But let me laugh awhile, I 've mickle time 


Get hence ! get hence ! there 's dwarf- 


to grieve.' 


ish Hildebrand; 




He had a fever late, and in the fit 


XV 


He cursed thee and thine, both house and 


Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, 


land : 


While Porphyro upon her face doth look, 


Then there 's that old Lord Maurice, not 


Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 


a whit 


Who keepeth closed a wond'rous riddle- 


More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me ! 


book, 


flit! 


As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 


Flit like a ghost away.' — * Ah, Gossip 


But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she 


dear. 


told 


We 're safe enough ; here in this arm- 


His lady's purpose; and he scarce conld 


chair sit, 


brook 


And tell me how ' — ' Good Saints ! not 


Tears, at the thought of those enchant- 


here, not here; 


ments cold. 


Follow me, child, or else these stones will 


And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 


be thy bier.' 






XVI 


XIII 


Sudden a thought came like a full-blown 


He foUow'd through a lowly arched way. 


rose, 


Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty 


Flushing his brow, and in his pained 


plume ; 


heart 



130 



THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



Made purple riot: then doth he propose 
A stratagem, that makes the beldame 

start: 
' A cruel man and impious thou art: 
Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and 

dream 
Alone with her good angels, far apart 
From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! I 

deem 
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou 

didst seem.' 

XVII 
' I will not harm her, by all saints I 

swear,' 
Quoth Porphyro: ' O may I ne'er find 

grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its 

last prayer. 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace, 
■ >r ook with ruffian passion in her face: 
(rood Angela, believe me by these tears; 

I will, even in a moment's space. 
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's 

ears. 
And beard them, though they be more 

fang'd than wolves and bears.' 

XVIII 

' Ah ! why wilt thou affright a feeble 

soul? 
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard 

thing. 
Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight 

toll; 
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and 

evening. 
Were never miss'd.' Thus plaining, doth 

she bring 
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; 
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing. 
That Angela gives promise she will do 
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or 

woe. 

XIX 

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there 
hide 



Him in a closet, of such privacy 

That he might see her beauty unespied, 

And win perhaps that night a peerless 

bride, 
While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet. 
And pale enchantment held her sleepy- 
eyed. 
Never on such a night have lovers met. 
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the mon- 
strous debt. 



'It shall be as thou wishest,' said the 

Dame: 
• All cates and dainties shall be stored 

there 
Quickly on this feast-night: by the tam- 
bour frame 
Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to 

spare. 
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce 

dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience; 

kneel in prayer 
The while: Ah! thou must needs the 

lady wed. 
Or may I never leave my grave among 

the dead.' 



So saying she hobbled off with busy fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd ; 
The Dame return 'd, and whisper 'd in 

his ear 
To follow her; with aged eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last. 
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd 

and chaste; 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleased 

amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues in 

her brain. 



Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade, 
Old Angela was feeling for the stair. 



I 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 131 


When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed 


As down she knelt for heaven's grace 


maid, 


and boon ; 


Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware: 


Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together 


With silver taper's light, and pious care. 


prest. 


She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led 


And on her silver cross soft amethyst. 


To a safe level matting. Now prepare, 


And on her hair a glory, like a saint: 


Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; 


She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, 


She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove 


Save wings, for heaven : — Porphyro grew 


fray'd and fled. 


faint; 




She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from 


XXIIl 


mortal taint. 


Out went the taper as she hurried in; 




Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, 


XXVI 


died: 


Anon his heart revives: her vespers 


She closed the door, she panted, all akin 


done, 


To spirits of the air, and visions wide: 


Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she 


No uttered syllable, or, woe betide ! 


frees; 


But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 


Unclasps her warmed jewels on. by 


Paining with eloquence her balmy side; 


one; 


As though a tongueless nightingale 


Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees 


should swell 


Her rich attire creeps rustling to her 


Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in 


knees: 


her dell. 


Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, 




Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and 


XXIV 


sees. 


A casement high and triple arch'd there 


In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 


was. 


But dares not look behind, or all the charm 


All garlanded with carven imag'ries 


is fled. 


Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of 




knot-grass. 


XXVII 


And diamonded with panes of quaint de- 


Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly 


vice. 


nest. 


Innumerable of stains and splendid 


In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she 


dyes, 


lay. 


As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd 


Until the poppied warmth of sleep op- 


wings; 


press'd 


And in the midst, 'mong thousand herald- 


Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued 


ries. 


away; 


And twilight saints, and dim emblazon- 


Flown, like a thought, until the morrow- 


ings. 


day; 


A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of 


Blissfully haven'd both from joy and 


queens and kings. 


pain; 




Clasp'd like a missal where swart Pay- 


XXV 


nims pray; 


Full on this casement shone the wintry 


Blinded alike from sunshine and from 


moon, 


rain, 


And threw warm gules on Madeline's 


As though a rose should shut, and be a bud 


fair breast. 


again. 



132 THE POEMS 


OF 1818-1819 


XXVIII 


XXXI 


Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, 


These delicates he heap'd with glowing 


Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 


band 


And listen'd to her breathing, if it 


On golden dishes and in baskets bright 


chanced 


Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they 


To wake into a slumberous tenderness; 


stand 


Which when he heard, that minute did 


In the retired quiet of the night, 


he bless, 


Filling the chilly room with perfume 


And breathed himself: then from the 


light. — 


closet crept, 


* And now, my love, my seraph fair, 


Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. 


awake ! 


And over the hush'd carpet, silent, 


Thou art my heaven, and I thine ere- 


stept, 


mite: 


And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo ! 


Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' 


— how fast she slept. 


sake. 




Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul 


XXIX 


doth ache.' 


Then by the bed-side, where the faded 




moon 


XXXII 


JMade a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 


Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved 


j*i table, and, half anguish'd, threw 


arm 


thereon 


Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her 


A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and 


dream 


jet: — 


By the dusk curtains: — 't was a mid- 


for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! 


night charm 


The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, 


Impossible to melt as iced stream: 


The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 


The lustrous salvers in the moonlight 


Affray his ears, though but in dying 


gleam ; 


tone : — 


Broad golden fringe upon the carpet 


The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise 


lies : 


is gone. 


It seem'd he never, never could redeem 




From such a steadfast spell his lady's 


XXX 


eyes; 


And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep. 


So mused awhile, entoil'd in woofed phan- 


In blanched linen, smooth, and laven- 


tasies. 


der'd, 




While he from forth the closet brought 


XXXIII 


a heap 


Awakening up, he took her hollow 


Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and 


lute, — 


gourd ; 


Tumultuous, — and, in chords that ten- 


With jellies soother than the creamy 


derest be, 


curd, 


He play'd an ancient ditty, long since 


And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon; 


mute. 


Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 


In Provence call'd ' La belle dame sans 


From Fez; and spiced dainties, every 


mercy : ' 


one. 


Close to her ear touching the melody; — 


From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Leba- 


Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft 


non. 


moan: 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 



^53 



He ceased — she panted quick — and 


Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind 


suddenly 


blows 


Her blue aff rayed eyes wide open shone: 


Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp 


Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth- 


sleet 


sculptured stone. 


Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' moon 




hath set. 


XXXIV 




Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 


XXXVII 


Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: 


'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw- 


There was a painfid change, that nigh 


blown sleet: 


expell'd 


' This is no dream, my bride, my Made- 


The blisses of her dream so pure and 


line ! ' 


deep 


'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and 


At which fair Madeline began to weep. 


beat: 


And moan forth witless words with 


' No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! 


many a sigh; 


Porphyro will leave me here to fade and 


While still her gaze on Porphyro would 


pine. — 


keep; 


Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither 


Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous 


bring ? 


eye, 


I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. 


Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so 


Though thou forsakest a deceived 


dreamingly. 


thing; — 




A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned 


XXXV 


wing.' 


* Ah, Porphyro! ' said she, * but even now 




Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine 


XXXVIII 


ear. 


* My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely 


Made tuneable with every sweetest vow; 


bride ! 


And those sad eyes were spiritual and 


Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 


clear: 


Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and 


How changed thou art ! how pallid, chill. 


vermeil dyed ? 


and drear ! 


Ah, silver shrine, here wQl I take my 


Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 


rest 


Those looks immortal, those complain- 


After so many hours of toil and quest. 


ings dear ! 


A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 


Oh leave me not in this eternal woe. 


Though I have found, I will not rob thy 


For if thou diest, my Love, I know not 


nest 


where to go.' 


Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st 




well 


XXXVI 


To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 


Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far 




At these voluptuous accents, he arose. 


XXXIX 


Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing 


' Hark ! 't is an elfin storm from faery 


star 


land. 


Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep re- 


Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: 


pose; 


Arise — arise ! the morning is at hand : — 


Into her dream he melted, as the rose 


The bloated wassailers will never heed: — 


Blendeth its odour with the violet, — 


Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; 



134 



THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



There are no ears to hear, or eyes to 

see, — 
Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy 

mead: 
Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be. 
For o'er the southern moors I have a home 

for thee.' 

XL 

She hurried at his words, beset with 

fears, 
For there were sleeping dragons all 

around. 
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready 

spears — 
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they 

found. — 
In all the house was heard no human 

sound. 
A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by 

each door; 
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, 

and hound, 
Flutter'd in the besieging wind's up- 
roar; 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty 

floor. 

XLI 

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide 

hall; 
Like phantoms to the iron porch they 

glide. 
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, 
With a huge empty flagon by his side: 
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook 

his hide. 
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: 
By one, and one, the bolts full easy 

slide : — 
The chains lie silent on the footworn 

stones; — 
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges 

groans. 

XLII 

And they are gone : aye, ages long ago 
These lovers fled away into the storm. 



That night the Baron dreamt of many a 
woe. 

And all his warrior-guests, with shade 
and form 

Of witch, and demon, and large coffin- 
worm, 

Were long be-uightmared. Angela the 
old 

Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face 
deform ; 

The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, 
For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes 
cold. 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 

Lemprifere's classical dictionary made Keats 
acquainted with the names and attributes of the 
inhabitants of the heavens in the ancient world, 
and the Shakesperean Chapman introduced 
him to Homer, but his acquaintance with the 
subtlest spirit of Greece was by a more direct 
means. Keats did not read Greek, and he had 
no scholar's knowledge of Greek art, but he 
had the poetic divination whicli scholars some- 
times fail to possess, and when he strolled into 
the British Museum and saw the Elgin marbles, 
the greatest remains in continuous series of per- 
haps the greatest of Greek sculptures, he saw 
them as an artist of kindred spirit with their 
makers. He saw them also with the complex 
emotion of a modern, and read into them his 
own thoughts. The result is most surely read 
in his longer poem of Hyperion, but the spirit 
evoked found its finest expression in this ode. 

The ode appears to have been composed in 
the spring of 1819 and first published in Janu- 
ary, 1820, in Annals of the Fine Arts. There are 
then about four years in time between the son- 
net, ' On first looking into Chapman's Homer,' 
and this ode ; if the former suggests a Balboa, 
this suggests a Magellan who has traversed the 
Pacific. It is not needful to find any single 
piece of ancient sculpture as a model for the 
poem, although there is at Holland House, 
where Keats might have seen it, an urn with 
just such a scene of pastoral sacrifice as is de- 
scribed in the fourth stanza. The ode was 
included by Keats in Lamia, Isabella, The Eve 
of St. Agties and other Poems. 



\ 



ODE ON INDOLENCE 



^35 



Thou still uiiravish'd bride of quietness, 
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow 
Time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 
A flowery tale more sweetly than our 
rhyme : 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy 
shape 
Of deities or mortals, or of both, 

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? 
What men or gods are these ? what 
maidens loth ? 
What mad pursuit ? What struggle to es- 
cape ? 
What pipes and timbrels ? What wild 
ecstasy ? lo 

II 
Heard melodies are sweet, but those un- 
heard 
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, 
play on; 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst 
not leave 
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be 
bare; 
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou 
kiss. 
Though winning near the goal — yet, do 
not grieve; 
She cannot fade, though thou hast not 
thy bliss, 19 

For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! 



Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot 
shed 
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring 
adieu; 
And, happy melodist, unwearied, 

For ever piping songs for ever new; 
More happy love! more happy, happy 
love! 
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd. 
For ever panting, and for ever young; 



All breathing human passion far above, 
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and 
cloy'd, 
A burning forehead, and a parching 
tongue. 30 



Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies. 
And all her silken flanks with garlands 
drest? 
What little town by river or sea shore. 
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel. 
Is emptied of this folk, this pious 
morn ? 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 
Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er re- 
turn. 40 



O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought. 

With forest branches and the trodden weed; 

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of 

thought 

As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! 

When old age shall this generation waste, 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other 
woe 
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom 
thou say'st, 
' Beauty is truth, truth beauty,' — that is 
all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to 
know. 50 



ODE ON INDOLENCE 

' They toil not, neither do they spin.' 

Published in Life, Letters and Literary He- 
mains. In a letter to George and Georgiana 
Keats, dated March 19, 1819, Keats uses lan- 
guage which shows this poem to have been 
just then in his mind : ' This morning I am in a 
sort of temper, indolent and supremely careless 



136 



THE POEMS OF 1818-18 



I5-I»I9 



— I long after a stanza or two of Thomson's 
Castle of Indolence — my passions are all 
asleep, from my having slumbered till nearly 
eleven, and weakened the animal fibre all over 
me, to a delightful sensation, about three de- 
grees on this side of f aintness. If I had teeth 
of pearl and the breath of lilies I should call 
it languor, but as I am I must call it laziness. 
In this state of effeminacy the fibres of the 
brain are relaxed in common with the rest of 
the body, and to such a happy degree that 
pleasure has no show of enticement and pain 
no unbearable power. Neither Poetry, nor 
Ambition, nor Love have any alertness of 
countenance as they pass by me ; they seem 
rather like figures on a Greek vase — a man 
and two women whom no one but myself could 
distinguish in their disguisement. This is the 
only happiness, and is a rare instance of the 
advantage of the body overpowering the Mind.' 



One morn before me were three figures 
seen, 
With bowed necks, and joined hands, 
side-faced; 
And one behind the other stepp'd serene, 
In placid sandals, and in white robes 
graced ; 
They pass'd, like figures on a marble urn. 
When shifted round to see the other 
side; 
They came again; as when the urn 
once more 
Is shifted round, the first seen shades re- 
turn; 
And they were strange to me, as may 
betide 
With vases, to one deep in Phidian 
lore. 



How is it, Shadows ! that I knew ye 
not? 
How came ye muffled in so hush a mask ? 
Was it a silent deep-disguised plot 

To steal away, and leave without a task 
My idle days ? Ripe was the drowsy 
hour; 



The blissful cloud of summer-indolence 
Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew 
less and less; 
Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath 
no flower: 
O, why did ye not melt, and leave my 
sense 
Unhaunted quite of all but — nothing- 
ness ? 



A third time pass'd they by, and, passing, 
turn'd 
Each one the face a moment whiles to 
me; 
Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd 
And ached for wings, because I knew 
the three; 
The first was a fair Maid, and Love her 
name ; 
The second was Ambition, pale of cheek, 
And ever watchful with fatigued 
eye; 
The last, whom I love more, the more of 
blame 
Is heap'd upon her, maiden most un- 
meek, — 
I knew to be my demon Poesy. 



They faded, and, forsooth ! I wanted 
wings : 
O folly ! What is Love ? and where is 
it? 
And for that poor Ambition ! it springs 
From a man's little heart's short fever- 
fit; 
For Poesy ! — no, — she has not a joy, — 
At least for me, — so sweet as drowsy 
noons. 
And evenings steep'd in honied indo- 
lence ; 
O, for an age so shelter'd from annoy. 
That I may never know how change the 
moons. 
Or hear the voice of busy common- 
sense ! 



ODE TO FANNY 



137 



And once more came they by ; — alas ! 
wherefore ? 
My sleep had been embroider'd with dim 
dreams; 
My soul had been a lawn besprinkled 
o'er 
With flowers, and stirring shades, and 
baffled beams: 
The morn was clouded, but no shower fell, 
Tho' in her lids hung the sweet tears of 
May; 
The open casement press'd a new- 
leaved vine. 
Let in the budding warmth and throstle's 
lay; 
O Shadows ! 't was a time to bid farewell ! 
Upon your skirts had fallen no tears 
of mine. 

VI 
So, ye three Ghosts, adieu ! Ye cannot 
raise 
My head cool - bedded in the flowery 
grass ; 
For I would not be dieted with praise, 

A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce ! 
Fade softly from my eyes and be once 
more 
In masq\ie-like figures on the dreamy 
urn; 
Farewell ! I yet have visions for the 
night, 
And for the day faint visions there is store ; 
Vanish, ye Phantoms ! from my idle 
spright, 
Into the clouds, and nevermore return ! 



SONNET 

Published in ii/«. Letters and Literary Re- 
mains. In a letter to his brother George and 
wife, Keats writos March 19, 1819: 'I am 
ever afraid that yimr anxiety for me will lead 
you to fear for the violent'.e of my tempera- 
ment continually siaotliered down : for that 
reason I did not intend to have sent you the 
following' sonnet — but look over the two last 



pages [of his letter] and ask yourselves whether 
I have not that in me which will bear the buf- 
fets of the world. It will be the best comment 
on my sonnet ; it will show you that it was 
written with no Agony but that of ignorance ; 
with no thirst of anything but Knowledge 
when pushed to the point, though the first 
steps to it were through my human passions, — 
they went away and I wrote with my Mind 
— and perhaps I must confess a little bit of my 
heart. ' 

Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will 
tell; 
No God, no Demon of severe response, 
Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell: 
Then to my human heart I turn at once. 
Heart ! Thou and I are here sad and alone ; 
I say, why did I laugh ? O mortal pain ! 
O Darkness ! Darkness ! ever must I moan. 
To question Heaven and Hell and Heart 
in vain. 
Why did I laugh ? I know this Being's 
lease, 
My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads; 
Yet would I on this very midnight cease, 
And the world's gaudy ensigns see in 
shreds* 
Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense 

indeed, 
But Death intenser — Death is Life's high 
meed. 



ODE TO FANNY 

First published in Life, Letters and Literary 
Remains, and there undated. 

Physician Nature ! let my spirit blood ! 

O ease my heart of verse and let me rest; 
Throw me upon thy Tripod, till the flood 
Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full 
breast. 
A theme ! a theme ! great Nature ! 

give a theme ; 
Let me begin my dream. 
I come — I see thee, as thou standest there; 
Beckon me not into the wintry air. 



138 



THE POEMS OF 1818-18 



i»-i»i9 



Ah ! dearest love, sweet home of all my 
fears, 
And hopes, and joys, and panting mis- 
eries, — 
To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears 
A smile of such delight, 
As brilliant and as bright, 
As when with ravished, aching, vassal 
eyes. 
Lost in soft amaze, 
I gaze, I gaze ! 

Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my 
feast ? 
What stare outfaces now my silver moon ! 
Ah ! keep that hand unravished at the least ; 
Let, let the amorous burn — 
But, pr'ythee, do not turn 
The current of your heart from me so 
soon. 
O ! save, in charity. 
The quickest pulse for me. 

Save it for me, sweet love ! though music 
breathe 
Voluptuous visions into the warm air. 
Though swimming through the dance's dan- 
gerous wreath; 
Be like an April day. 
Smiling and cold and gay, 
A temperate lily, temperate as fair; 
Then, Heaven ! there will be 
A warmer June for me. 

Why, this — you '11 say, my Fanny ! is not 
true: 
Put your soft hand upon your snowy side. 
Where the heart beats: confess — 'tis 
nothing new — 
Must not a woman be 
A feather on the sea, 
Sway'd to and fro by every wind and 
tide? 
Of as uncertain speed 
As blow-ball from the mead ? 

I know it — and to know it is despair 
To one who loves you as I love, sweet 
Fanny ! 



Whose heart goes fluttering for you every- 
where. 
Nor, when away you roam, 
Dare keep its wretched home : 
Love, love alone, has pains severe and 
many : 
Then, loveliest ! keep me free 
From torturing jealousy. 

Ah ! if you prize my subdued soul above 
The poor, the fading, brief pride of an 
hour; 
Let none profane my Holy See of love, 
Or with a rude hand break 
The sacramental cake: 
Let none else touch the just new-budded 
flower; 
If not — may my eyes close, 
Love ! on their last repose. 



A DREAM, AFTER READING 
DANTE'S EPISODE OF PAOLO 
AND FRANCESCA 

To George and Georgiana Keats, April 18 or 
19, 1819, Keats writes: 'The fifth canto of 
Dante pleases me more and more — it is that 
one in which he meets with Paolo and Fran- 
cesca. I had passed many days in rather a 
low state of mind, and in the midst of them I 
dreamt of being in that region of Hell. The 
dream was one of the most delightful enjoy- 
ments I ever had in my life. I floated about 
the whirling atmosphere, as it is described, with 
a beautiful figure, to whose lips mine were 
joined as it seemed for an age — and in the 
midst of all lis jold and d.irkness I was warm 
— even flo^>^^ tree-tops sprung up, and we 
rested on tb.. i. sometimes with the lightness 
of a cloud, t i 1 the wind blew us away again. 
I tried a sou-t t upon it — there are fourteen 
lines, but nobiiing of what I felt in it — that 
I could dream it every night.' Keats after- 
wards printed ti\e sonnet in The Indicator for 
June 28, 1820. 

As Hermes once took tc his feathers light. 
When lulled Argus, ' affled, swoon'd and 
slept 
So on a Delpliic reed, ay idle spright 



LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 



139 



So play'd, so cbarm'd, so couquer'd, so 
bereft 
The dragon- world of all its hundred eyes; 

And, seeing it asleep, so fled away — 
Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies, 
Nor unto Tempe where Jove grieved a 
day; 
But to that second circle of sad hell, 

Where 'mid the gust, the whirlwind, and 

the flaw 

Of rain and hail-stones, lovers need not tell 

Their sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips 

I saw. 

Pale were the lips I kiss'd, and fair the form 

I floated with, about that melancholy stoi-m. 



LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 

Sent in a letter to George and Georgiana 
Keats, April 28, )^/±y, and printed by Leigh 
Hunt in '^'"- Indicator, May 10, 1820. Hunt 
says the poem was suggested by that title at 
the head of a translation from Alan Chartier 
at the end of Chaucer's works. 



Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, 
Alone and palely loitering ? 

The sedge is wither'd from the lake. 
And no birds sing. 

II 

A " wh; t can ail theo, wretched wight, 

J hau<j^ard and so woe-begone ? 
Tl squirrel's granary is full, 
.ixud tlie harvest 's done. 



I sf!e a lily on thy brow, 

With anguish moi^ and fever dew; 
And on thy iheek ;t*fading rose 

I'^ast withereth too. 



I met a lady ni tie meads. 

Full beau'ilul — a faery's child; 

Her hair was long, her foot was light, 
And her eyes we.^e wild. 



I set her on my pacing steed, 

And nothing else saw all day long. 

For sideways would she lean, and sing 
A faery's song. 



VI 



I made a garland for her head. 

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; 

She look'd at me as she did love. 
And made sweet moan. 



She found me roots of relish sweet. 
And honey wild, and manna dew; 

And sure in language strange she said — 
' I love thee true.' 

VIII 
She took me to her elfin grot, 

And there she gazed, and sighed deep, 
And there I shut her wild wild eyes 

So kiss'd to sleep. 

IX 
And there we slumber'd on the moss. 

And there I dream'd — Ah ! woe betide ! 
The latest dream I ever dream'd 

On the cold hill side. 



I saw pale kings, and princes too. 

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; 

They cried — ' La Belle Dame sans Merci 
Hath thee in thrall ! ' 



I saw their starved lips in the gloam, 
With horrid warning gaped wide, 

And I awoke, and found me here 
On the cold hill side. 



And this is why I sojourn here. 

Alone and palely loitering, 
Though the sedge is wither'd from the 
lake. 

And no birds sing. 



140 



THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



CHORUS OF FAIRIES 

Inclosed in a letter to George and Georgiana 
Keats, April 28, 1819, and printed in Life, 
Letters and Literary Remains- 

FIRE, AIR, EARTH, AND WATER 

SALAMANDER, ZEPHYR, DUSKETHA, AND 

BREAMA 

SALAMANDER 

Happy, happy glowing fire ! 

ZEPHYR 

Fragrant air ! delicious light ! 

DUSKETHA 

Let me to my glooms retire ! 

BREAMA 

I to green-weed rivers bright ! 

SALAMANDER 

Happy, happy glowing fire ! 

Dazzling bowers of soft retire, 

Ever let my nourish'd wing. 

Like a bat's, still wandering. 

Faintly fan your fiery spaces. 

Spirit sole in deadly places. lo 

In unhaunted roar and blaze, 

Open eyes that never daze. 

Let me see the myriad shapes 

Of men, and beasts, and fish, and apes, 

Portray'd in many a fiery den. 

And wrought by spumy bitumen. 

On the deep intenser roof. 

Arched every way, aloof. 

Let me breathe upon my skies, 

And anger their live tapestries; 20 

Free from cold, and every care, 

Of chilly rain, and shivering air. 



Spright of Fire ! away ! away ! 
Or your very roundelay 
Will sear my plumage newly budded 
From its quilled sheath, and studded 
With the self-same dews that fell 
On the May-grown Asphodel. 
Spright of Fire — away ! away ! 



BREAMA 

Spright of Fire — away ! away ! 30 

Zephyr, blue-eyed Faery, turn. 
And see my cool sedge-shaded urn. 
Where it rests its mossy brim 
'Mid water-mint and cresses dim; 
And the flowers, in sweet troubles, 
Lift their eyes above the bubbles, 
Like our Queen, when she would please 
To sleep, and Oberon will tease. 
Love me, blue-eyed Faery ! true, 
Soothly I am sick for you. 40 

ZEPHYR 

Gentle Breama ! by the first 

Violet young nature nurst, 

I will bathe myself with thee, 

So you sometime follow me 

To my home, far, far, in west. 

Far beyond the seatcL and quest 

Of the golden-browed sun. 

Come with me, o'er tops of trees, 

To my fragrant palaces, 

Where they ever floating are 50 

Beneath the cherish of a star 

Call'd Vesper, who with silver veil 

Ever hides his brilliance pale. 

Ever gently-drowsed doth keep | 

Twilight for the Fays to sleep. 

Fear not that your watery hair 

Will thirst in drouthy ringlets there; 

Clouds of stored summer rains 

Thou shalt taste, before the stains .'^ 

Of the mountain soil they take, 60 

And too unlucent for thee make. 

I love the*^, crystal Fapiy, true f 

Sooth I aai. as sick for you ! 

SALAMANDER 

Out, ye aguish Faeries, out ! 
Chilly lovers, what a rout 
Keep ye with your frozen breath, 
Colder thiiii the mortal death. 
Adder-eyt J Dusketha, speak. 
Shall we leave tUem, aitd go seek 
In the earth's wide entrails old 7 

Couches warm as theirs is cold ? 
O for a fitly gloom a ad thee. 



FAERY SONGS 



141 



Dusketha, so enchantinglj' 
Freckle-wing'd and lizard-sided ! 

DUSKETHA 

By thee, Spright, will I be guided ! 

I care not for cold or heat; 

Frost and flame, or sparks, or sleet, 

To my essence are the same ; — 

But I honour more the flame. 

Spright of fire, I follow thee 80 

Wheresoever it may be; 

To the torrid spouts and fountains, 

Underneath earth-quaked mountains; 

Or, at thy supreme desire. 

Touch the very pulse of fire 

With my bare unlidded eyes. 

SALAMANDER 

Sweet Dusketha ! paradise ! 
Off, ye icy Spirits, fly ! 
Frosty creatures of the sky ! 

DUSKETHA 

Breathe upon them, fiery Spright ! 9° 

ZEPHYR, BREAMA (to each other) 
Away ! away to our delight ! 

SALAMANDER 

Go, feed on icicles, while we 
Bedded in tongued flames will be. 

DUSKETHA 

Lead me to these fev'rous glooms, 
Spright of Fire ! 

BREAMA 

Me to the blooms, 
Blue eyed Zephyr of those flowers 
Far in the west where the May -cloud lowers: 
And the beams of still Vesper, where 

winds are all whist. 
Are shed thro' the rair " he milder 
mist, 
And twilight your floating bowers. loo 

FAERY SONGS 

These two songs are fijiven in Life, Letters 
and Literary Eemains, but without date. It 



seems not inapt to place them near the Song of 
Four Fairies. 



Shed no tear ! O shed no tear ! 
The flower will bloom another year. 
Weep no more ! O weep no more ! 
Young buds sleep in the root's white core. 
Dry your eyes ! O dry your eyes. 
For 1 was taught in Paradise 
To ease my breast of melodies — 
Shed no tear. 

Overhead ! look overhead 
'Mong the blossoms white and red — 
Look up, look up — I flutter now 
On this flush pomegranate bough. 
See me ! 't is this silvery bill 
Ever cures the good man's ill. 
Shed no tear ! O shed no tear ! 
The flower will bloom another year. 
Adieu, Adieu — I fly, adieu, 
I vanish in the heaven's blue — 

Adieu, Adieu ! 



Ah ! woe is me ! poor silver-wing ! 

That I must chant thy lady's dirge. 
And death to this fair haunt of spring, 
Of melody, and streams of flowery 
verge, — 

Poor silver-wing ! ah ! woe is me ! 
That I must see 
These blossoms snow upon thy lady's pall ! 
Go, pretty page ! and in her ear 
Whisper that the hour is near ! 
Softly tell her not to fear 
Such calm favonian burial ! 

Go, pretty page ! and soothly tell, — 

The blossoms hang by a melting spell. 

And fall they must, ere a star wink thrice 

Upon her closed eyes. 
That now in vain are weeping their last 
tears. 
At sweet life leaving, and those arbours 
green, — 
Rich dowry from the Spirit of the 
Spheres, — 

Alas ! poor Queen ! 



142 



THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



ON FAME 

' You cannot eat your cake and have it too.' — Proverb. 

Sent with the next two to George and Georgi- 
ana Keats, April 30, 1819, and printed in it/e, 
Letters and Literary Remains. 

How fever'd is that man, who cannot look 
Upon his mortal days with temperate 
blood, 
Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book, 
And robs his fair name of its maiden- 
hood: 
It is as if the rose should pluck herself, 

Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom; 
As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf, 

Should darken her pure grot with muddy 
gloom. 
But the rose leaves herself upon the brier. 
For winds to kiss and grateful bees to 
feed, 
And the ripe plum still wears its dim at- 
tire. 
The undisturbed lake has crystal space : 
Why then should man, teasing the 
world for grace, 
Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed ? 



ANOTHER ON FAME 

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy 
To those who woo her with too slavish 
knees. 
But makes surrender to some thoughtless 
boy. 
And dotes the more upon a heart at ease ; 
She is a Gipsy, — will not speak to those 
Who have not learnt to be content with- 
out her ; 
A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd 
close, 
Who thinks they scandal her who talk 
about her; 
A very Gipsy is she, Nilus-born, 

Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar; 
Ye lovesick Bards ! repay her scorn for 
scorn; 



Ye Artists lovelorn ! madmen that ye 
are ! 
Make your best bow to her and bid adieu. 
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you. 



TO SLEEP 

O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight, 

Shutting, with careful fingers and benign. 
Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from 
the light, 
Enshaded in forge tfulness divine: 
O soothest Sleep ! if so it please thee, 
close. 
In midst of this thine hymn, my willing 
eyes, 
Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws 
Around my bed its dewy charities; 
Then save me, or the passed day will 
shine 
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes; 
Save me from curious conscience, that 
still lords 
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a 
mole ; 
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards. 
And seal the hushed casket of my soul. 



ODE TO PSYCHE 

' The following poem — the last I have writ- 
ten — is the first and only one with which I have 
taken even moderate pains. I have, for the 
most part, dashed off my lines in a hurry. This 
I have done leisurely — I think it reads the more 
richly for it, and will I hope encourage me to 
write other things in even a more peaceable 
and healthy spirit. You must recollect that 
Psyche was not embodied as a goddess before 
the time of Apuleius the Platonist, who lived 
after the Augustan age, and consequently the 
Goddess was never worshipped or sacrificed to 
with any of the ancient fervour — and perhaps 
never thought of in the old religion — I am 
more orthodox than to let a heathen Goddess 
be so neglected.' Keats to his Brother and 
Sister, April 30, 1819. H afterward included 
the poem in his volumf uantia, Isabella, The 
Eve of St. Agnes and ' ic-r J 'items, 1820. 



ODE TO PSYCHE 



143 



Goddess ! hear these tuneless numbers, 

wrung 
By sweet enforcement and remembrance 
dear, 
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung 

Even into thine own soft-conched ear: 
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see 

The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes ? 

1 wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, 
And, on the sudden, fainting with sur- 
prise. 

Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side 
In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring 
roof 10 

Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where 
there ran 

A brooklet, scarce espied: 



'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers fragrant- 
eyed, 
Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, 
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded 
grass; 
Their arms embraced, and their pinions 

too; 
Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade 
adieu, 
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, 
And ready still past kisses to outnumber 
At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love : 20 

The winged boy I knew; 
But who wast thon,0 happy, happy dove ? 
His Psyche true ! 



O latest-born and loveliest vision far 
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy ! 
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star. 
Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the 
sky; 
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast 
none, 

Nor altar heap'd with flowers; 
Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan 

Upon the midnight hours; 31 



No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet 
From chain-swung censer teeming; 

No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat 
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 



brightest ! though too late for antique 

vows, 

Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, 
When holy were the haunted forest boughs, 

Holy the air, the water, and the fire ; 
Yet even in these days so far retired 40 

From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, 

Fluttering among the faint Olympians, 

1 see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. 
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan 

Upon the midnight hours; 
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense 
sweet 
From swinged censer teeming; 
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat 
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 



Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane 
In some untrodden region of my mind, 
Where branched thoughts, new-grown with 
pleasant pain, 52 

Instead of pines shall murmur in the 
wind: 
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd 
trees 
Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep 
by steep; 
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, 
and bees, 
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to 
sleep; 
And in the midst of this wide quietness 
A rosy sanctuary will I dress 
With the wreath'd trellis of a working 
brain, 60 

With buds, and bells, and stars without 
a name, 
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could 
feign, 
Who breeding flowers, will never breed 
the same: 



144 



THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



And there shall be for thee all soft delight 

That shadowy thought can win, 
A bright torch, and a casement ope at 
night, 

To let the warm Love in ! 



SONNET 

In copying his ' Ode to Psyche, ' Keats added 
the flourish ' Here endethe ye Ode to Psyche,' 
and went on ' lucipit altera soneta.' ' I have 
been endeavouring,' he writes, 'to discover a 
better Sonnet Stanza than we have. The legiti- 
mate does not suit the language over well from 
the pouncing rhymes — the other kind appears 
too elegiac — and the couplet at the end of it 
has seldom a pleasing effect — I do not pre- 
tend to have succeeded — it will explain itself.' 
The sonnet was printed in Life, Letters and Lit- 
erary Remains. 

If by dull rhymes our English must be 
chain'd, 
And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet 
Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness; 
Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd, 
Sandals more interwoven and complete 
To fit the naked foot of poesy; 
Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the 

stress 
Of every chord, and see what may be 
gain'd 
By ear industrious, and attention meet; 
Misers of sound and syllable, no less 
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be 

Jealous of dead leaves in the bay-wreath 
crown : 
So, if we may not let the Muse be free. 
She will be bound with garlands of her 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 

First published in the July, 1819, Annals of 
the Fine Arts and included in the 1820 volume. 
It was composed in May, 1819. In the Aldine 
edition of 1876 Lord Houghton prefixes this 
note: ' In the spring of 1819 a nightingale 
bmlt her nest next Mr. Be van's house. Keats 



took great pleasure in her song, and one morn- 
ing took his chair from the breakfast table to 
the grass plot under a plum tree, where he 
remained between two and three hours. He 
then reached the house with some scraps of 
paper in his hand, which he soon put together 
in the form of this Ode.' Haydon in a letter 
to Miss Mitf ord says : ' The death of his bro- 
ther [in December, 1818] wounded him deeply, 
and it appeared to me from that hour he began 
to droop. He wrote his exquisite ' Ode to the 
Nightingale ' at this time, and as we were one 
evening walking in the Kilburn meadows he 
repeated it to me, before he put it to paper, in 
a low, tremulous undertone which affected me 
extremely.' It may well be that Tom Keats 
was in the poet's mind when he wrote line 26. 



My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness 
pains 
My sense, as though of hemlock I had 
drunk, 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had 
sunk: 
'T is not through envy of thy happy lot. 
But being too happy in thine happiness, — 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the 
trees, 

In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows number- 
less, 
Singest of summer in full-throated 
ease. lo 



O for a draught of vintage ! that hath been 
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved 
earth. 
Tasting of Flora and the country-green, 
Dance, and Provencal song, and sun- 
burnt mirth ! 
O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippo- 
crene. 
With beaded bubbles winking at the 
brim. 

And purple-stained mouth ; 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 



I4S 



That I might drink, and leave the world 
unseen, 
And with thee fade away into the for- 
est dim: 20 

III 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
What thou among the leaves hast never 
known. 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
Here, where men sit and hear each other 
groan ; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray 
hairs. 
Where youth grows pale, and spectre- 
thin, and dies; 
Where but to think is to be full of 
sorrow 

And leaden-eyed despairs, 
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous 
eyes. 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to- 
morrow. 30 



Away ! away ! for I wiU fly to thee, 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards. 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and re- 
tards : 
Already with thee ! tender is the night, 
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her 
throne, 
Cluster'd around by all her starry 
Fays; 

But here there is no light. 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes 
blown 
Throng a verdurons o-looms and wind- 
ing raossy ways. 40 



I cannot see what flowers are at my feet. 
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the 

boughs, 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each 

sweet 



Wherewith the seasonable month en- 
dows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree 
wild; 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglan- 
tine; 
Fast fading violets cover'd up in 
leaves ; 

And mid-May's eldest child. 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy 
wine. 
The murmurous haunt of flies on sum- 
j^ mer eves. 50 

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time 
I have been half in love with easeful 
Death, 
Call'd him soft names in many a mused 
rhyme. 
To take into the air my quiet breath; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die. 
To cease upon the midnight with no 
pain. 

While thou art pouring forth thy soul 
abroad 

In such an ecstasy ! 
Still would st thou sing, and I have ears 
in vain — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 60 



Thou wast not born for death, immortal 
Bird! 
No hungry generations tread thee down; 
The voice I hear this passing night was 
heard 
In ancient days by emperor and clown: 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a 
path 
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, 
sick for home. 
She stood in tears amid the alien com ; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charm'd magic casements, opening on 
the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands for- 
lorn. 70 / 

\ 



146 



THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 

. To toll me back from thee to my sole 

self! 
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still 
stream. 
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried 
deep 

In the next valley-glades: 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 
Fled is that music: — do I wake or 
sleep ? 80 

LAMIA 

In the early summer of 1819 Keats felt the 
pressure of want of money and determined to 
go into the country, where he could live cheaply, 
and devote himself to writing. He went ac- 
cordingly to Shanklin, Isle of Wight, and wrote 
thence to Reynolds, July 12, ' I have finished 
the Act [the first of Otho the Great], and in the 
interval of beginning the 2nd have proceeded 
pretty well with Lamia, finishing the first part 
which consists of about 400 lines. I have 
great hope of success [in this enterprise of 
maintenance], because I make use of my judg- 
ment more deliberately than I have yet done.' 
He continued to work at Lamia in connection 
with the tragedy, completing it in August at 
Winchester. It formed the leading poem in the 
volume Lamia, Isabella, the Eve of St. Agnes 
and other Poems, published in 1820. Keats's 
own judgment of it is in his words : ' I am cer- 
tain there is that sort of fire in it which must 
take hold of people in some way — give them 
either pleasant or unpleasant association.' He 
found the germ of the story in Burton's Anat- 
omy of Melancholy, where it is credited to Phi- 
lostratus. The passage will be found in the 
Notes. Lord Houghton says, on the authority 
of Brown, that Keats wrote the poem after 
much study of Dryden's versification. 

PART I 
Upon a time, before the faery broods 
Drove Nymph and Satyr from the pro- 
sperous woods, 



Before King Oberon's bright diadem. 
Sceptre, and mantle, clasp'd with dewy gem. 
Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns 
From rushes green, and brakes, and cow- 

slipp'd lawns. 
The ever-smitten Hermes empty left 
His golden throne, bent warm on amorous 

theft; 
From high Olympus had he stolen light, 
On this side of Jove's clouds, to escape the 

sight lo 

Of his great summoner, and made retreat 
Into a forest on the shores of Crete. 
For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt 
A nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt; 
At whose white feet the languid Tritons 

poured 
Pearls, while on land they wither'd and 

adored. 
Fast by the springs where she to bathe was 

wont. 
And in those meads where sometimes she 

might haunt. 
Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any 

Muse, 
Though Fancy's casket were unlock'd to 

choose. 2o 

Ah, what a world of love was at her feet ! 
So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat 
Burnt from his winged heels to either ear, 
That from a whiteness, as the lily clear, 
Blush'd into roses 'mid his golden hair. 
Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders 

bare. 

From vale to vale, from wood to wood, 

he flew, 
Breathing upon the flowers his passion new, 
And wound with many a river to its bead, 
To find where this sweet nymph. prepa-ed 

her secret bed: 30 

In vain; the sweet nymph might nowhere^ 

be found. 
And so he rested, on the lonely gromid, 
Pensive, and full of painful jealousies 
Of the Wood-Gods, and < ven the very trees. 
There as he stood, he ueard, a mournful 

voice, 






_L. 



LAMIA 



147 



Such as once heard, in gentle heart, de- 
stroys 
All pain but pity: thus the lone voice spake: 
' When from this wreathed tomb shall I 

awake ! 
When move in a sweet body fit for life, 
And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy 
strife 40 

Of hearts and lips ! Ah, miserable me ! ' 
The God, dove-footed, glided silently 
Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in his 

speed. 
The taller grasses and full-flowering weed, 
Until he found a palpitating snake, 
Bright, and cirque-couchant in a dusky 
brake. 

She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue, 

Vermilion - spotted, golden, green, and 
blue; 

Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard. 

Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barr'd; 

And full of silver moons, that, as she 
breathed, 51 

Dissolved, or brighter shone, or inter- 
wreathed 

Their lustres with the gloomier tapes- 
tries — 

So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries. 

She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady 
elf, 

Some demon's mistress, or the demon's 
self. 

Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire 

Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne's tiar: 

Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet ! 

i She had a woman's mouth with all its 

pearls complete: 60 

And for her eyes — what could such eyes 
do there 

But weep, and weep, that they were born 
so fair ? 

As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian 
air. 

Her throat was serpent, but the words she 
spake 

Came, as through bubbling honey, for 
Love's sake. 



And thus ; while Hermes on his pinions lay, 
Like a stoop'd falcon ere he takes his prey : 

' Fair Hermes ! crown'd with feathers, 

fluttering light, 
I had a splendid dream of thee last night: 
I saw thee sitting, on a throne of gold, 70 
Among the Gods, upon Olympus old, 
The only sad one ; for thou didst not hear 
The soft, lute - finger'd Muses chanting 

clear. 
Nor even Apollo when he sang alone. 
Deaf to his throbbing throat's long, long 

melodious moan. 
I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes. 
Break amorous through the clouds, as 

morning breaks, 
And, swiftly as a bright Phcebean dart. 
Strike for the Cretan isle; and here thou 

art ! 
Too gentle Hermes, hast thou found the 

maid ? ' 80 

Whereat the star of Lethe not delay'd 
His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired: 
' Thou smooth-lipp'd serpent, surely high- 
inspired ! 
Thou beauteous wreath, with melancholy 

eyes. 
Possess whatever bliss thou canst devise. 
Telling me only where my nymph is fled, — 
Where she doth breathe ! ' ' Bright planet, 

thou hast said,' 
Return'd the snake, ' but seal with oaths, 

fair God ! ' 
' 1 swear,' said Hermes, ' by my serpent rod, 
And by thine eyes, and by thy starry 

crown ! ' 90 

Light flew his earnest words, among the 

blossoms blown. 
Then thus again the brilliance feminine: 
' Too frail of heart ! for this lost nymph of 

thine. 
Free as the air, invisibly, she strays 
About these thornless wilds; her pleasant 

days 
She tastes unseen ; unseen her nimble 

feet 
Leave traces in the grass and flowers sweet; 



148 



THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



From weary tendrils, and bow'd branches 

green, 
She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes un- 
seen : 
And by my power is her beauty veil'd 100 
To keep it unaff routed, unassail'd 
By the love-glances of unlovely eyes. 
Of Satyrs, Fauns, and blear'd Silenus' sighs. 
Pale grew her immortality, for woe 
Of all these lovers, and she grieved so 
I took compassion on her, bade her steep 
Her hair in weird syrops, that would keep 
Her loveliness invisible, yet free 
To wander as she loves, in liberty. 
Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone. 
If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my 

boon ! ' III 

Then, once again, the charmed God began 
An oath, and through the serpent's ears it 

ran 
Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian. 
Ravish'd she lifted her Circean head, 
Blush'd a live damask, and swift-lisping 

said, 
' I was a woman, let me have once more 
A woman's shape, and charming as before. 
I love a youth of Corinth — O the bliss ! 
Give me my woman's form, and place me 

where he is. 120 

Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy 

brow. 
And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even 

now.' 
The God on half-shut feathers sank serene, 
She breathed upon his eyes, and swift was 

seen 
Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling 

on the green. 
It was no dream; or say a dream it was. 
Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly 

pass 
Their pleasures in a long immortal dream. 
One warm, flush'd moment, hovering, it 

might seem 
Dash'd by the wood-nymph's beauty, so he 

burn'd; 130 

Then, lighting on the printless verdure, 

turn'd 



To the swoon'd serpent, and with languid 

arm. 
Delicate, put to proof the lithe Caducean 

charm. 
So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent 
Full of adoring tears and blandishment. 
And towards her stept: she, like a moon in 

wane. 
Faded before him, cower'd, nor could re- 
strain 
Her fearful sobs, self -folding like a flower 
That faints into itself at evening hour: 
But the God fostering her chilled hand, 140 
She felt the warmth, her eyelids open'd 

bland. 
And, like new flowers at morning song of 

bees, 
Bloom'd, and gave up her honey to the 

lees. 
Into the green-recessed woods they flew; 
Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do. 

Left to herself, the serpent now began 
To change; her elfin blood in madness ran, 
Her mouth foam'd, and the grass, there- 
with besprent, 
Wither'd at dew so sweet and virulent; 
Her eyes in torture fix'd, and anguish 

drear, 150 

Hot, glazed, and wide, with lid-lashes all 

sear, 
Flash'd phosphor and sharp sparks, without 

one cooling tear. 
The colours all inflamed throughout her 

train. 
She writhed about, convulsed with scarlet 

pain : 
A deep volcanian yellow took the place 
Of all her milder-mooned body's grace ; 
And, as the lava ravishes the mead. 
Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede: 
Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks 

and bars, 
Eclipsed her crescents, and lick'd up her 

stars : 16° 

So that, in moments few, she was undrest 
Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst, 
And rubious-arffent : of all these bereft, 



LAMIA 



149 



Nothing but pain and ugliness were left. 
Still shone her crown; that vanish'd, also 

she 
Melted and disappear'd as suddenly; 
And in the air, her new voice luting soft, 
Cried, 'Lycius! gentle Lycius!' — Borne 

aloft 
With the bright mists about the mountains 

hoar 
These words dissolved : Crete's forests 

heard no more. 170 

Whither fled Lamia, now a lady bright, 
A full-born beauty new and exquisite ? 
She fled into that valley they pass o'er 
Who go to Corinth from Cenchreas' shore: 
And rested at the foot of those wild hills. 
The rugged founts of the Peraean rills, 
And of that other ridge whose barren back 
Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy 

rack, 
South-westward to Cleone. There she 

stood 179 

About a young bird's flutter from a wood, 
Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread, 
By a clear pool, wherein she passioned 
To see herself escaped from so sore ills, 
While her robes flaunted with the daffo- 

dUs. 

Ah, happy Lycius ! — for she was a maid 
More beautiful than ever twisted braid. 
Or sigh'd, or blush'd, or on spring-flowered 

lea 
Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy: 
A virgin purest lipp'd, yet in the lore 
Of love deep learned to the red heart's 
core : 190 

Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain 
To unperplex bliss from its neighbour 

pain; 
Define their pettish limits, and estrange 
Their points of contact, and swift counter- 
change ; 
Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dis- 
part 
Its most ambiguous atoms with sure art; 
As though in Cupid's college she had spent 



Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent, 
And kept his rosy terms in idle languish- 
ment. 

Why this fair creature chose so fairily 
By the wayside to linger, we shall see; 201 
But first 't is fit to tell how she could muse 
And dream, when in the serpent prison- 
house, 
Of all she list, strange or magnificent: 
How, ever, where she will'd, her spirit 

went; 
Whether to faint Elysium, or where 
Down through tress-lifting waves the Ne- 
reids fair 
Wind into Thetis' bower by many a pearly 

stair; 
Or where God Bacchus drains his cups 

divine, 
Stretch'd out, at ease, beneath a glutinous 
pine; 210 

Or where in Pluto's gardens palatine 
Mulciber's columns gleam in far piazzian 

line. 
And sometimes into cities she would send 
Her dream, with feast and rioting to blend; 
And once, while among mortals dreaming 

thus. 
She saw the young Corinthian Lycius 
Charioting foremost in the envious race. 
Like a young Jove with calm uneager 

face. 
And fell into a swooning love of him. 219 
Now on the moth-time of that evening dim 
He would return that way, as well she 

knew. 
To Corinth from the shore; for freshly 

blew 
The eastern soft wind, and his galley now 
Grated the quay-stones with her brazen 

prow 
In port Cenchreas, from Egina isle 
Fresh anchor'd; whither he had been awhile 
To sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there 
Waits with high marble doors for blood 

and incense rare. 
Jove heard his vows, and better'd his de- 
sire; 



15° 



THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



For by some freakful chance he made re- 
tire 230 
From his companions, and set forth to 

walk, 
Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth 

talk: 
Over the solitary hills he fared, 
Thoughtless at first, but ere eve's star ap- 

pear'd 
His phantasy was lost, where reason fades, 
In the calm'd twilight of Platonic shades. 
Lamia beheld him coming, near, more 

near — 
Close to her passing, in indifference drear, 
His silent sandals swept the mossy green; 
So neighbour'd to him, and yet so unseen 240 
She stood: he pass'd, shut up in mysteries. 
His mind wrapp'd like his mantle, while 

her eyes 
Follow'd his steps, and her neck regal 

white 
Turn'd — syllabling thus, ' Ah, Lycius 

bright! 
And will you leave me on the hills alone ? 
Lycius, look back! and be some pity shown.' 
He did; not with cold wonder fearingly, 
But Orpheus-like at an Eurydice; 
For so delicious were the words she sung, 
It seem'd he had loved them a whole sum- 
mer long: 250 
And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty 

up. 
Leaving no drop in the bewildering cup. 
And still the cup was full, — while he, 

afraid 
Lest she should vanish ere his lips had paid 
Due adoration, thus began to adore; 
Her soft look growing coy, she saw his 

chain so sure: 
' Leave thee alone! Look back! Ah, God- 
dess, see 
Whether my eyes can ever turn from thee ! 
For pity do not this sad heart belie — 
Even as thou vanishest so I shall die. 260 
Stay ! though a Naiad of the rivers, stay ! 
To thy far wishes will thy streams obey: 
Stay ! though the greenest woods be thy 
domain. 



Alone they can drink up the morning rain: 
Though a descended Pleiad, will not one 
Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune 
Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine ? 
So sweetly to these ravish'd ears of mine 
Came thy sweet greeting, that if thou 

shouldst fade, 
Thy memory will waste me to a shade: — 
For pity do not melt ! ' — 'If I should 

stay,' 271 

Said Lamia, ' here, upon this floor of clay. 
And pain my steps upon these flowers too 

rough, 
What canst thou say or do of charm enough 
To dull the nice remembrance of my home ? 
Thou canst not ask me with thee here to 

roam 
Over these hills and vales, where no joy 

is, — 
Empty of immortality and bliss ! 
Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know 
That finer spirits cannot breathe below 280 
In human climes, and live: Alas ! poor 

youth. 
What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe 
My essence ? What serener palaces. 
Where I may all my many senses please. 
And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts 

appease ? 
It cannot be — Adieu ! ' So said, she rose 
Tiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick 

to lose 
The amorous promise of her lone complain, 
Swoon'd murmuring of love, and pale with 

pain. 
The cruel lady, without any show 290 

Of sorrow for her tender favourite's woe, 
But rather, if her eyes could brighter be. 
With brighter eyes and slow amenity. 
Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh 
The life she had so tangled in her mesh: 
And as he from one trance was wakening 
Into another, she began to sing, 
Happy in beauty, life, and love, and every 

thing, 
A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres. 
While, like held breath, the stars drew in 

their panting fires. 300 



LAMIA 



151 



And then she whisper'd in such trembling 

tone, 
As those who, safe together met alone 
For the first time through many anguish 'd 

days, 
Use other speech than looks; bidding him 

raise 
His drooping head, and clear his soul of 

doubt, 
For that she was a woman, and without 
Any more subtle fluid in her veins 
Than throbbing blood, and that the self- 
same pains 
Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his. 
And next she wonder'd how his eyes could 

miss 310 

Her face so long in Corinth, where, she 

said, 
She dwelt but half retired, and there had 

led 
Days happy as the gold coin could invent 
Without the aid of love ; yet in content 
Till she saw him, as once she pass'd him by, 
Where 'gainst a column he leant thought- 

fully 
At Venus' temple porch, 'mid baskets 

heap'd 
Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reap'd 
Late on that eve, as 't was the night before 
The Adonian feast; whereof she saw no 

more, 320 

But wept alone those days, for why should 

she adore ? 
Lycius from death awoke into amaze, 
To see her still, and singing so sweet lays; 
Then from amaze into delight he fell 
To hear her whisper woman's lore so well; 
And every word she spake enticed him on 
To unperplex'd delight and pleasure known. 
Let the mad poets say whate'er they please 
Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses, 
There is not such a treat among them 

all, 330 

Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall. 
As a real woman, lineal indeed 
From Pyrrha's pebbles or old Adam's seed. 
Thus gentle Lamia judged, and judged 

aright, 



That Lycius could not love in half a fright. 
So threw the goddess off, and won his heart 
More pleasantly by playing woman's part, 
With no more awe than what her beauty 

gave. 
That, while it smote, still guaranteed to 

save. 
Lycius to all made eloquent reply, 340 

Marrying to every word a twin-born sigh: 
And last, pointing to Corinth, ask'd her 

sweet, 
If 't was too far that night for her soft 

feet. 
The way was short, for Lamia's eagerness 
Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease 
To a few paces ; not at all surmised 
By blinded Lycius, so in her comprised: 
They pass'd the city gates, he knew not how. 
So noiseless, and he never thought to know. 

As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all, 350 
Throughout her palaces imperial. 
And all her populous streets and temples 

lewd, 
Mutter'd, like tempest in the distance 

brew'd. 
To the wide-spreaded night above her 

towers. 
Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool 

hours, 
Shuffled their sandals o'er the pavement 

white, 
Companion'd or alone ; while many a light 
Flared, here and there, from wealthy festi- 
vals. 
And threw their moving shadows on the 

walls. 
Or found them cluster'd in the corniced 

shade 360 

Of some arch'd temple door, or dusky 

colonnade. 

Muffling his face, of greeting friends in 

fear. 
Her fingers he press'd hard, as one came 

near 
With curl'd gray beard, sharp eyes, and 

smooth bald crown, 



152 



THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



Slow-stepp'd, and robed in philosophic 

gown : 
Lycius shrank closer, as they met and 

past, 
Into his mantle, adding wings to haste, 
While hurried Lamia trembled: 'Ah,' said 

he, 
* Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully ? 
Why does your tender palm dissolve in 

dew?' — 370 

'I'm wearied,' said fair Lamia: 'tell me 

who 
Is that old man ? I cannot bring to mind 
His features: — Lycius ! wherefore did you 

blind 
Yourself from his quick eyes ? ' Lycius 

replied, 
' 'T is ApoUonius sage, my trusty guide 
And good instructor; but to-night he seems 
The ghost of folly haunting my sweet 

dreams.' 

While yet he spake they had arrived 

before 
A pillar'd porch, with lofty portal door. 
Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor 

glow 380 

Reflected in the slabbed steps below. 
Mild as a star in water; for so new 
And so unsullied was the marble hue, 
So through the crystal polish, liquid fine, 
Ran the dark veins, that none but feet 

divine 
Could e'er have touch'd there. Sounds 

-Siolian 
Breathed from the hinges, as the ample 

span 
Of the wide doors disclosed a place un- 
known 
Some time to any, but those two alone. 
And a few Persian mutes, who that same 

year 39° 

Were seen about the markets: none knew 

where 
They could inhabit; the most curious 
Were foil'd, who watch' d to trace them to 

their house: 
And but the flitter-winged verse must tell, 



For truth's sake, what woe afterwards 
befell, 

'T would humour many a heart to leave 
them thus. 

Shut from the busy world of more incredu- 
lous. 

PART II 

Love in a hut, with water and a crust. 

Is — Love, forgive us ! — cinders, ashes, 

dust; 
Love in a palace is perhaps at last 
More grievous torment than a hermit's 

fast: — 
That is a doubtful tale from faery land. 
Hard for the non-elect to understand. 
Had Lycius lived to hand his story down. 
He might have given the moral a fresh 

frown. 
Or clench'd it quite: but too short was 

their bliss 
To breed distrust and hate, that make the 

soft voice hiss. 10 

Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare. 
Love, jealous grown of so complete a pair, 
Hover'd and buzz'd his wings, with fearful 

roar. 
Above the Untel of their chamber door. 
And down the passage cast a glow upon 

the floor. 

For all this came a ruin: side by side 
They were enthroned, in the even tide. 
Upon a couch, near to a curtaining 
Whose airy texture, from a golden string. 
Floated into the room, and let appear 20 
Unveil'd the summer heaven, blue and 

clear, 
Betwixt two marble shafts: — there they 

reposed, 
Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids 

closed. 
Saving a tithe which love still open kept, 
That they might see each other while they 

almost slept; 
When from the slope side of a suburb 

hill, 



LAMIA 



153 



Deafening the swallow's twitter, came a 

thrill 
Of trumpets — Lycius started — the sounds 

fled, 
But left a thought, a buzzing in his head. 
For the first time, since first he harbour'd 

in 30 

That purple-lined palace of sweet sin. 
His spirit pass'd beyond its golden bourn 
Into the noisy world almost forsworn. 
The lady, ever watchful, penetrant. 
Saw this with pain, so arguing a want 
Of something more, more than her empery 
Of joys; and she began to moan and sigh 
Because he mused beyond her, knowing well 
That but a moment's thought is passion's 

passing bell. 

* Why do you sigh, fair creature ? ' whis- 

per'd he: 40 

* Why do you think ? ' return'd she ten- 

derly : 

* You have deserted me ; — where am I 

now ? 
Not iu your heart while care weighs on 

your brow: 
No, no, you have dismiss'd me; and I go 
From your breast houseless: aye, it must be 

so.* 
, He answer'd, bending to her open eyes, 
Where he was mirror'd small in paradise, 
' My silver plauet, both of eve and morn ! 
'. Why will you plead yourself so sad forlorn. 
While I am striving how to fill my heart 50 
With deeper crimson, and a double smart ? 
1 How to entangle, trammel up and snare 
Your soul iu mine, and labyrinth you 

there, 
Like the hid scent in an unbudded rose ? 
Aye, a sweet kiss — you see your mighty 

woes. 
My thoughts ! shall I unveil them ? Lis- 
ten then ! 
What mortal hath a prize, that other men 
May be confounded and abash'd withal, 
But lets it sometimes pace abroad majes- 

tical. 
And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice 60 
Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth's voice. 



Let my foes choke, and my friends shout 

afar, 
While through the thronged streets your 

bridal car 
Wheels round its dazzling spokes.' — The 

lady's cheek 
Trembled; she nothing said, but, pale and 

meek, 
Arose and knelt before him, wept a rain 
Of sorrows at his words ; at last with 

pain 
Beseeching him, the while his hand she 

wrung, 
To change his purpose. He thereat was 

stung. 
Perverse, with stronger fancy to reclaim 70 
Her wild and timid nature to his aim; 
Besides, for all his love, in self despite, 
Against his better self, he took delight 
Luxurious in her sorrows, soft and new. 
His passion, cruel grown, took on a hue 
Fierce and sanguineous as 't was possible 
In one whose brow had no dark veins to 

swell. 
Fine was the mitigated fury, like 
Apollo's presence when iu act to strike 
The serpent — Ha ! the serpent ! certes, 

she 80 

Was none. She burnt, she loved the 

tyranny. 
And, all subdued, consented to the hour 
When to the bridal he should lead his par- 
amour. 
Whispering in midnight silence, said the 

youth, 
' Sure some sweet name thou hast, though, 

by my truth, 
I have not ask'd it, ever thinking thee 
Not mortal, but of heavenly progeny, 
As still I do. Hast any mortal name, 
Fit appellation for this dazzling frame ? 
Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth. 
To share our marriage feast and nuptial 

mirth?' 91 

' I have no friends,' said Lamia, ' no, not 

one; 
My presence in wide Corinth hardly known: 
My parents' bones are in their dusty urns 



.Vv^ c_ 



V^ e V 



IS4 



THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



Sepulchred, where no kindled incense 

burns, 
Seeing all their luckless race are dead, 

save me, 
And I neglect the holy rite for thee. 
Even as you list invite your many guests; 
But if, as now it seems, your vision rests 
With any pleasure on me, do not bid 100 
Old Apollonius — from him keep me hid.' 
Lycius, perplex'd at words so blind and 

blank. 
Made close inquiry; from whose touch she 

shrank, 
Feigning a sleep; and he to the dull shade 
Of deep sleep in a moment was betray'd. 

It was the custom then to bring away 
The bride from home at blushing shut of 

day, 
Veil'd, in a chariot, heralded along 
By strewn flowers, torches, and a marriage 

song, 
With other pageants: but this fair un- 
known 1 10 
Had not a friend. So being left alone, 
(Lycius was gone to summon all his kin,) 
And knowing surely she could never win 
His foolish heart from its mad pompous- 

ness, 
She set herself, high-thoughted, how to 

dress 
The misery in fit magnificence. 
She did so, but 't is doubtful how and 

whence 
Came, and who were her subtle servitors. 
About the halls, and to and from the doors. 
There was a noise of wings, till in short 

space 120 

The glowing banquet - room shone with 

wide-arched grace. 
A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone 
Supportress of the faery-roof, made moan 
Throughout, as fearful the whole charm 

might fade. 
Fresh carved cedar, mimicking a glade 
Of palm and plantain, met from either side. 
High in the midst, in honour of the bride : 
Two palms and then two plantains, and so on, 



From either side their stems branch'd one 

to one 
All down the aisled place; and beneath all 
There ran a stream of lamps straight on 

from wall to wall. 131 

So canopied, lay an untasted feast 
Teeming with odours. Lamia, regal drest. 
Silently paced about, and as she went. 
In pale contented sort of discontent, 
Mission'd her viewless servants to enrich 
The fretted splendour of each nook and 

niche. 
Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at 

first. 
Came jasper panels ; then, anon, there burst 
Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees, 140 
And with the larger wove in small intrica- 
cies. 
Approving all, she faded at self-will, 
And shut the chamber up, close, hush'd 

and still. 
Complete and ready for the revels rude. 
When dreadful guests would come to spoil 

her solitude. 

The day appear'd, and all the gossip 
rout. 

O senseless Lycius ! Madman ! wherefore 
flout 

The silent-blessing fate, warm cloister'd 
hours, 

And show to common eyes these secret 
bowers ? 

The herd approach'd; each guest, with busy 
brain, 150 

Arriving at the portal, gazed amain. 

And enter'd marvelling: for they knew the 
street, 

Remember'd it from childhood all complete 

Without a gap, yet ne'er before had seen 

That royal porch, that high-built fair de- 
mesne ; 

So in they hurried all, mazed, curious and 
keen : 

Save one, who look'd thereon with eye se- 
vere. 

And with calm-planted steps walk'd in aus- 
tere: 



LAMIA 



^55 



'T was ApoUonius: something too he 

laugh'd, 
As though some knotty problem, that had 

daft i6o 

His patient thought, had now begun to 

thaw. 
And solve and melt: — 'twas just as he 

foresaw. 

He met within the murmurous vestibule 
His young disciple. ' 'T is no common rule, 
Lycius,' said he, 'for uninvited guest 
To force himself upon you, and infest 
With an unbidden presence the bright 

throng 
Of younger friends; yet must I do this 

wrong. 
And you forgive me.' Lycius blush'd, and 

led 
The old man through the inner doors broad- 
spread; 170 
With reconciling words and courteous mien 
Turning into sweet milk the sophist's 
spleen. 

Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room, 
Fill'd with pervading brilliance and per- 
fume : 
Before each lucid panel fuming stood 
A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood. 
Each by a sacred tripod held aloft, 
Whose slender feet wide-swerved upon the 

soft 
Wool - woof ed carpets : fifty wreaths of 

smoke 
From fifty censers their light voyage took 
To the high roof, still mimick'd as they 

rose iSi 

Along the mirror'd walls by twin-clouds 

odorous. 
Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats in- 

spher'd, 
High as the level of a man's breast rear'd 
On libbard's paws, upheld the heavy gold 
Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told 
Of Ceres' horn, and, in huge vessels, wine 
Came from the gloomy tun with merry 

shine. 



Thus loaded with a feast the tables stood. 
Each shrining in the midst the image of a 
God. 190 

When in an antechamber every guest 
Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure 

press'd, 
By ministering slaves, upon his hands and 

feet, 
And fragrant oils with ceremony meet 
Pour'd on his hair, they all moved to the 

feast 
In white robes, and themselves in order 

placed 
Around the silken couches, wondering 
Whence all this mighty cost and blaze of 

wealth could spring. 

Soft went the music the soft air along. 
While fluent Greek a vowel'd imder-song 
Kept up among the guests, discoursing 

low 201 

At first, for scarcely was the wine at flow; 
But when the happy vintage touch'd their 

brains, 
Louder they talk, and louder come the 

strains 
Of powerful instruments: — the gorgeous 

dyes, 
The space, the splendour of the draperies, 
The roof of awful richness, nectarous cheer, 
Beautiful slaves, and Lamia's self, appear, 
Now, when the wine has done its rosy 

deed. 
And every soul from human trammels 

freed, 210 

No more so strange ; for merry wine, sweet 

wine, 
Will make Elysian shades not too fair, too 

divine. 
Soon was God Bacchus at meridian height; 
Flush'd were their cheeks, and bright eyes 

double bright: 
Garlands of every green, and every scent 
From vales deflower'd, or forest - trees 

branch-rent. 
In baskets of bright osier'd gold were 

brouffht 



156 



THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



High as the handles heap'd, to suit the 

thought 
Of every guest: that each, as he did please, 
Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillow'd at 

his ease. 220 

What wreath for Lamia ? What for Ly- 

cius ? 
What for the sage, old ApoUonius ? 
Upon her aching forehead be there hung 
The leaves of willow and of adder's tongue ; 
And for the youth, quick, let us strip for 

him 
The thyrsus, that his watching eyes may 

swim 
Into forgetfulness; and, for the sage, 
Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle 

wage 
War on his temples. Do not all charms fly 
At the mere touch of cold philosophy ? 230 
There was an awful rainbow once in 

heaven: 
We know her woof, her texture; she is 

given 
In the dull catalogue of common things. 
Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings. 
Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, 
Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine — 
Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made 
The tender-person'd Lamia melt into a 

shade. 

By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place, 
Scarce saw in all the room another face, 240 
Till, checking his love trance, a cup he 

took 
Full brimm'd, and opposite sent forth a 

look 
'Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance 
From his old teacher's wrinkled counte- 
nance. 
And pledge him. The bald-head philoso- 
pher 
Had fix'd his eye, without a twinkle or 

stir. 
Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride. 
Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling 
her sweet pride. 



Lycius then press'd her hand, with devout 

touch. 
As pale it lay upon the rosy couch: 250 

'T was icy, and the cold ran through his 

veins; 
Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains 
Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart. 

* Lamia, what means this ? Wherefore dost 

thou start ? 
Know'st thou that man ? ' Poor Lamia an- 

swer'd not. 
He gazed into her eyes, and not a jot 
Own'd they the lovelorn piteous appeal: 
More, more he gazed: his human senses 

reel: 
Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs: 
There was no recognition in those orbs. 260 
' Lamia ! ' he cried — and no soft-toned 

reply. 
The many heard, and the loud revelry 
Grew hush: the stately music no more 

breathes ; 
The myrtle sicken'd in a thousand wreaths. 
By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure 

ceased; 
A deadly silence step by step increased. 
Until it seem'd a horrid presence there. 
And not a man but felt the terror in his 

hair. 
' Lamia ! ' he shriek'd ; and nothing* but 

the shriek 
With its sad echo did the silence break. 270 

* Begone, foul dream ! ' he cried, gazing 

again 

In the bride's face, where now no azure 
vein 

Wander 'd on fair-spaced temples; no soft 
bloom 

Misted the cheek; no passion to illume 

The deep-recessed vision: — all was blight; 

Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly 
white. 

' Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruth- 
less man ! 

Turn them aside, wretch ! or the righteous 
ban 

Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images 

Here represent their shadowy presences. 



LAMIA 



157 



May pierce them on the sudden with the 
thorn 281 

Of painful blindness ; leaving thee for- 
lorn, 

In trembling dotage to the feeblest fright 

Of conscience, for their long - ofifended 
might, 

For all thine impious proud-heart sophis- 
tries, 

Unlawful magic, and enticing lies. 
, Corinthians ! look upon that gray-beard 
wretch ! 

Mark how, possess'd, his lashless eyelids 
stretch 

Around his demon eyes ! Corinthians, see ! 

My sweet bride withers at their potency.' 290 
' * Fool ! ' said the sophist, in an under-tone 

Gruff with contempt; which a death-uigh- 
ing moan 

From Lycius answer'd, as heart-struck and 
lost. 

He sank supine beside the aching ghost. 
1 * Fool ! Fool ! ' repeated he, while his eyes 
still 



Relented not, nor moved; 'from every ill 
Of life have I preserved thee to this day, 
And shall I see thee made a serpent's 

prey ? ' 
Then Lamia breathed death breath; the 

sophist's eye. 
Like a sharp spear, went through her ut- 
terly, 300 
Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging: she, as 

well 
As her weak hand could any meaning tell, 
Motion 'd him to be silent; vainly so, 
He look'd and look'd again a level — No ! 
' A serpent ! ' echoed he; no sooner said. 
Than with a frightful scream she vanished: 
And Lycius' arms were empty of delight, 
As were his limbs of life, from that same 

night. 
On the high couch he lay ! — his friends 

came round — 
Supported him — no pulse or breath they 

found, 3 10 

And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body 

wound. 



TRAGEDIES 



OTHO THE GREAT 

A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS 

When Keats went to the Isle of Wight in 
the early summer of 1819, it was with the de- 
termination to make his literary powers yield 
him a support, and the theatre, which he knew 
well, offered the surest means, in his judg- 
ment, for an immediate return. There was, 
indeed, something of a literary revival of the 
drama at this time, and Keats had often dis- 
cussed with his friends the merits of plays then 
before the public, and especially the character 
of Kean's acting. They were rather skeptical 
of Keats's ability to produce a successful play, 
and their doubts had some good basis, if we 
may judge from the account which Charles 
Armitage Brown gives of Keats's mode of com- 
position. Lord Houghton quotes the following 
from a manuscript by Brown, who was Keats's 
companion at Shanklin : ' At Shanklin he un- 
dertook a difficult task : I engaged to furnish 
him with the title, characters and dramatic 
conduct of a tragedy, and he was to enwrap it 
in poetry. The progress of this work was curi- 
ous, for while I sat opposite to him, he caught 
my description of each scene entire, with the 
characters to be brought forward, the events, 
and everything connected with it. Thus he 
went on, scene after scene, never knowing nor 
enquiring into the scene which was to follow, 
iintil four acts were completed. It was then 
he required to know at once all the events that 
were to occupy the fifth act ; I explained them 
to him, but, after a patient hearing and some 
thought, he insisted that many incidents in it 
were too humorous, or, as he termed them, too 
melodramatic. He wrote the fifth act in ac- 
cordance with his own views, and so contented 
was I with his poetry that at the time, and for a 
long time after, I thought he was in the right.' 

Keats himself says little of the tragedy, ex- 
cept as a piece of work solely designed for pro- 



158 



fit. ' Brown and I,' he writes to John Taylor, 
his publisher, ' have together been engaged 
(this I should wish to remain secret) on a Tra- 
gedy which I have just finished and from 
which we hope to share moderate profits. . . . 
I feel every confidence that, if I choose, I may 
be a popular writer. That I will never be ; 
but for all that I will get a livelihood.' He 
wrote shortly after to the same friend : ' Brown 
likes the tragedy very much. But he is not a 
fit judge of it, as I have only acted as midwife 
to his plot ; and of course he will be fond of 
his child.' The money to be got from the 
tragedy was uppermost in his mind when he 
wrote to his brother George, who shared his 
pecuniary difficulties : ' We are certainly in a 
very low estate — I say we, for 1 am in such a 
situation, that were it not for the assistance of 
Brown and Taylor, I must, be as badly off as a 
man can be. I could not raise any sum by the 
promise of any poem, no, not by the mortgage 
of my intellect. We must wait a little while. 
I really have hopes of success. I have finished 
a tragedy, which if it succeeds will enable me 
to sell what I may have in manuscript to a 
good advantage. I have passed my time in 
reading, writing, and fretting — the last I in- 
tend to give up, and stick to the other two. 
They are the only chances of benefit to us. . . . 
Take matters as coolly as you can ; and confi- 
dently expecting help from England, act as if 
no help were nigh. Mine, I am sure, is a tol- 
erable tragedy ; it would have been a bank to 
me, if just as I had finished it, I had not heard 
of Kean's resolution to go to America. That 
was the worst news I could have had. There 
is no actor can do the principal character be- 
sides Kean. At Covent Garden there is a great 
chance of its being damn'd. Were it to suc- 
ceed even there it would lift me out of the 
mire ; I mean the mire of a bad reputation 
which is continually rising against me. My 
name with the literary fashionables is vulgar. 
I am a weaver-boy to them. A tragedy would 



SCENE I 



OTHO THE GREAT 



159 



lift me out of this mess, and mess it is as far 
as regards our pockets.' 

Keats continued to pin his faith on Kean. 
' The report seems now,' he writes to the same, 
September 27, ' more in favour of Kean's stop- 
ping- in Eng-land. If he should I have confi- 
dent hopes of our tragedy. If he invokes the 
hot-blooded character of Ludolph, — and he is 
the only actor that can do it, — he will add to 



his own fame and improve my fortune.' Keats 
waited with slowly ebbing hopes. Elliston 
read it, but wished to put it off till another 
season. ' Perhaps,' Keats writes in December, 
' we may give it another furbish, and try it at 
Covent Garden. 'T would do one's heart good 
to see Macready in Ludolph.' But the play 
never was acted at either Drury Lane or Co- 
vent Garden. 



OTHO THE GREAT 

DRAMATIS PERSONS 

Otho the Great, Emperor of Germany. 

Ludolph, his Son. 

CoNBAD, Duke of Franconia. 

Albert, a Knight, favoured by Otho. 

SiGLFBED, an Officer, friend of Ludolph. 



Theodore, | /-,a:„„~. 
' \ Officers. 
60NFRED, ) 



Ethelbert, an Abbot. 
Gebsa, Prince of Hungary. 
An Htmgariun Captain. 
Physician. 
Page. 

Nobles, Knights, Attendants, and Soldiers. 
Ebminia, Niece of Otho. 
Aueanthe, Conrad^s Sister. 
Ladies and Attendants. 
Scene. — The Castle of Friedburg, its vicinity, and 
the Hungarian Camp. 
Time. — One Day. 



ACT I 

Scene I. — Aji Apartment in the Castle 

Enter Conrad. 
Conrad. So, I am safe emerged from 
these broils ! 
f^mid the wreck of thousands I am whole ; 
For every crime I have a laurel-wreath, 
For every lie a lordship. Nor yet has 
My ship of fortune f url'd her silken sails, — 
Let her glide on ! This danger'd ueck is 

saved, 
By dexterous policy, from the rebel's axe; 
A.nd of my ducal palace not one stone 
[s bruised by the Hungarian petards. 
Foil hard, ye slaves, and from the miser- 
earth 10 
Bring forth once more my bullion, trea- 
sured deej), 



With all my jewel'd salvers, silver and 

gold, 
And precious goblets that make rich the 

wine. 
But why do I stand babbling to myself ? 
Where is Aurauthe ? I have news for 

her 
Shall — 

Enter Auranthe. 

Auranthe. Conrad ! what tidings ? Good, 
if I may guess 
From your alert eyes and high-lifted brows. 
What tidings of the battle ? Albert ? Lu- 
dolph ? Otho ? 
Conrad. You guess aright. And, sister, 
slurring o'er 
Our by-gone quarrels, I confess my heart 
Is beating with a child's anxiety, 21 

To make our golden fortune known to 
you. 
Auranthe. So serious ? 
Conrad. Yes, so serious, that before 

I utter even the shadow of a hint 
Concerning what will make that sin-worn 

cheek 
Blush joyous blood through every linea- 
ment. 
You must make here a solemn vow to 
me. 
Auranthe. I pr'ythee, Conrad, do not 
overact 
The hypocrite. What vow would you im- 
pose ? 
Conrad. Trust me for once. That you 
may be assured 30 

'T is not confiding to a broken reed, 
A poor court-bankrupt, outwitted and lost, 



i6o 



TRAGEDIES 



ACT I 



Revolve these facts in your acutest mood, 
In such a mood as now you listen to me: — 
A few days since, I was an open rebel, — 
Against the Emperor, had suborn'd his 

son, — 
Drawn off his nobles to revolt, — and 

shown 
Contented fools causes for discontent, 
Fresh hatched in my ambition's eagle-nest; 
So thrived I as a rebel, — and, behold ! 40 
Now I am Otho's favourite, his dear friend, 
His right hand, his brave Conrad. 

Auranthe. I confess 

You have intrigued with these unsteady 

times 
To admiration; but to be a favourite — 
Conrad. I saw my moment. The Hun- 
garians, 
Collected silently in holes and corners, 
Appear'd, a sudden host, in the open day. 
I should have perish'd in our empire's 

wreck, 
But, calling interest loyalty, swore faith 
To most believing Otho; and so help'd 50 
His blood-stain'd ensigns to the victory 
In yesterday's hard fight, that it has turn'd 
The edge of his sharp wrath to eager kind- 
ness. 
Auranthe. So far yourself. But what is 
this to me 
More than that I am glad ? I gratulate 
you, 
Conrad. Yes, sister, but it does regard 
you greatly. 
Nearly, momentously, — aye, painfully ! 
Make me this vow — 

Auranthe. Concerning whom or what ? 
Conrad. Albert ! 

Auranthe. I would inquire somewhat of 
him: 
You had a letter from me touching him ? 60 
Nb treason 'gainst his head in deed or 

word ! 
Surely you spared him at my earnest 

prayer ? 
Give me the letter — it should not ex- 
ist ! 



Conrad. At one pernicious charge of the 

enemy, 
I, for a moment- whiles, was prisoner ta'en 
And rifled, — stuff ! the horses' hoofs have 

minced it ! 
Auranthe. He is alive ? 
Conrad. He is ! but here make oath 

To alienate him from your scheming brain, 
Divorce him from your solitary thoughts. 
And cloud him in such utter banishment, 70 
That when his person meets again your 

eye, 
Your vision shall quite lose its memory, 
And wander past him as through vacancy. 
Auranthe. I '11 not be perjured. 
Conrad. No, nor great, nor mighty; 

You would not wear a crown, or rule a 

kingdom. 
To you it is indifferent. 

Auranthe. What means this ? 

Conrad. You '11 not be perjured ! Go to 

Albert then. 
That camp-mushroom — dishonour of our 

house. 
Go, page his dusty heels upon a inarch, 
Furbish his jingling baldric while he sleeps, 
And share his mouldy ration in a siege. 81 
Yet stay, — perhaps a charm may call you 

back, 
And make the widening circlets of your 

eyes 
Sparkle with healthy fevers. — The Em- 
peror 
Hath given consent that you should marry 

Ludolph ! 
Auranthe. Can it be, brother ? For a 

golden crown 
With a queen's awful lips I doubly thank 

you ! 
This is to wake in Paradise ! Farewell 
Thou clod of yesterday — 't was not my- 
self ! 
Not till this moment did I ever feel 90 

My spirit's faculties ! I '11 flatter you 
For this, and be you ever proud of it; 
Thou, Jove-like, struck'dst thy forehead, 
And from the teeming marrow of thy brain 



SCENE I 



OTHO THE GREAT 



i6i 



I spring complete Minerva ! but the 

prince — 
His highness Ludolph — where is he ? 

Conrad. I know not: 

When, lackying my counsel at a beck, 
The rebel lords, on bended knees, received 
The Emperor's pardon, Ludolph kept aloof. 
Sole, in a stiff, fool-hardy, sulky pride; loo 
Yet, for all this, I never saw a father 
In such a sickly longing for his son. 
We shall soon see him, for the Emperor 
He will be here this morning. 

Auranthe. That I heard 

Among the midnight rumours from the 

camp. 
Conrad. You give up Albert to me ? 
Auranthe. Harm him not ! 

E'en for his highness Ludolph's sceptry 

hand, 
I would not Albert suffer any wrong. 
Conrad. Have I not laboured, plotted — ? 
Auranthe. See you spare him: 

Nor be pathetic, my kind benefactor ! no 
On all the many bounties of your hand, — 
'T was for yourself you laboured — not for 

me ! 
Do you not count, when I am queen, to 

take 
Advantage of your chance discoveries 
Of my poor secrets, and so hold a rod 
Over my life ? 

Conrad. Let not this slave — this vil- 
lain — 
Be cause of feud between us. See ! he 

comes ! 
Look, woman, look, your Albert is quite 

safe ! 
In haste it seems. Now shall I be in the 

way, 
And wish'd with silent curses in my grave. 
Or side by side with' whelmed mariners. 121 

Enter Albert. 
Albert. Fair on your graces fall this 
early morrow ! 
So it is like to do without my prayers. 
For your right noble names, like favourite 
tunes. 



Have fallen full frequent from our Em- 
peror's lips. 
High commented with smiles. 

Auranthe. Noble Albert ! 

Conrad (aside). Noble ! 
Auranthe. Such salutation argues a glad 
heart 
In our prosperity. We thank you, sir. 

Albert. Lady ! 

O, would to Heaven your poor servant 
Could do you better service tbau mere 
words ! 130 

But I have other greeting than mine own, 
From no less man than Otho, who has sent 
This ring as pledge of dearest amity; 
'Tis chosen I hear from Hymen's jewelry, 
And you will prize it, lady, I doubt not. 
Beyond all pleasures past, and all to come. 
To you great duke — 

Conrad. To me ! What of me, ha ? 

Albert. What pleased your grace to say ? 
Conrad. Your message, sir ! 

Albert. You mean not this to me ? 
Conrad. Sister, this way; 

For there shall be no ' gentle Alberts ' now, 

[ A side. 
No ' sweet Auranthes ! ' 141 

\_Exeunt Conrad and Auranthe. 
Albert (solus). The duke is out of temper; 
if he knows 
More than a brother of his sister ought, 
I should not quarrel with his peevishness. 
Auranthe — Heaven preserve her always 

fair ! — 
Is in the heady, proud, ambitious vein; 
I bicker not with her, — bid her farewell ! 
She has taken flight from me, then let her 

soar, — 
He is a fool who stands at pining gaze ! 
But for poor Ludolph, he is food for sor- 
row: 150 
No leveling bluster of my licensed thoughts. 
No military swagger of my mind. 
Can smother from myself the wrong I 've 

done him, — 
Without design indeed, — yet it is so, — 
And opiate for the conscience have I none ! 

^Exit. 



1 62 



TRAGEDIES 



ACT I 



Scene II. 



The Cotirt-yard of the 
Castle 



Martial Music. Enter, from the outer gate, 
Otho, Nobles, Knights, and Attendants. 
The Soldiers halt at the gate, with Banners 
in sight. 
Otho. Where is my noble Herald ? 

Enter Conrad, from the Castle, attended 
by two Knights and Servants. Albert 
following. 

Well, hast told 
Auranthe our intent imperial ? 
Lest our rent banners, too o' the sudden 

shown, 
Should fright her silken casements, and 

dismay 
Her household to our lack of entertain- 
ment. 
A victory ! 

Conrad. God save illustrious Otho ! 
Otho. Aye, Courad, it will pluck out all 
gray hairs; 
It is the best physician for the spleen; 
The courtliest iuviter to a feast; 
The subtlest excuser of small faults; lo 

And a nice judge in the age and smack of 
wine. 

Enter from the Castle, Auranthe, followed 
by Pages, holding up her robes, and a train 
of Women. She kneels. 

Hail my sweet hostess ! I do thank the 

stars. 
Or my good soldiers, or their ladies' eyes, 
That, after sucli a merry battle fought, 
I can, all safe in body and in soul. 
Kiss your fair hand and lady fortune's too. 
My ring ! now, on my life, it doth rejoice 
These lips to feel 't on this soft ivory ! 
Keep it, my brightest daughter; it may 

prove 
The little prologue to a line of kings, 20 
I strove against thee and my hot-blood son, 
Dull blockhead that I was to be so blind. 
But now my sight is clear; forgive me, 

lady. 



Auranthe. My lord, I was a vassal to 

your frown, 
And now your favour makes me but more 

humble; 
In wintry wiuds the simple snow is safe. 
But fadeth at the greeting of the sun: 
Unto thine anger I might well have spoken. 
Taking on me a woman's privilege. 
But this so sudden kindness makes me 

dumb. 30 

Otho. What need of this? Enough, if 

you will be 
A potent tutoress to my wayward boy. 
And teach him, what it seems his nurse 

could not, 
To say, for once, I thank you ! Sigifred ! 
Albert. He has not yet returned, my 

gracious liege. 
Otho. What then ! No tidings of my 

friendly Arab ? 
Conrad. None, mighty Otho. 

[ To one of his Knights who goes out. 

Send forth instantly 

An hundred horsemen from my honoured 

gates. 
To scour the plains and search the cot- 
tages. 
Cry a reward, to him who shall first bring 
News of that vanished Arabian, 41 

A full-heap'd helmet of the purest gold. 
Otho. More thanks, good Conrad; for, 

except my son's, 
There is no face I rather would behold 
Than that same quick-eyed pagan's. By 

the saints. 
This coming night of banquets must not 

light 
Her dazzling torches; nor the music 

breathe 
Smooth, without clashing cymbal, tones of 

peace 
And in-door melodies; nor the ruddy wine 
Ebb spouting to the lees; if I pledge not, 50 
In my first cup, that Arab ! 

Albert. Mighty Monarch, 

I wonder not this stranger's victor-deeds 
So hang upon your spirit. Twice in the 

fight 



SCENE II 



OTHO THE GREAT 



163 



It was my chance to meet his olive brow, 
Triumphant in the enemy's shatter'd 

rhomb; 
And, to say truth, in any Christian arm 
I never saw such prowess. 

Otho. Did you ever ? 

O, 't is a noble boy ! — tut ! — what do I 

say? 
I mean a triple Saladin, whose eyes, 
When in the glorious scuffle they met 
mine, 60 

Seem'd to say — ' Sleep, old man, in safety 

sleep; 
I am the victory ! ' 

Conrad. Pity he 's not here. 

Otho. And my son too, pity he is not 
here. 
Lady Auranthe, I would not make you 

blush. 
But can you give a guess where Ludolph 

is? 
Know you not of him ? 

Auranthe. Indeed, my liege, no secret — 
Otho. Nay, nay, without more words, 

dost know of him ? 
Auranthe. I would I were so over-fortu- 
nate, 
Both for his sake and mine, and to make 

glad 
A father's ears with tidings of his son. 70 
Otho. I see 't is like to be a tedious day. 
Were Theodore and Gonfred and the rest 
Sent forth with my commands ? 

Albert. Aye, my lord. 

Otho. And no news ! No news ! 'Faith ! 
't is very strange 
He thus avoids us. Lady, is 't not strange ? 
Will he be truant to you too ? It is a 
shame. 
Conrad. Will 't please your highness en- 
ter, and accept, 
The unworthy welcome of your servant's 

house ? 
Leaving your cares to one whose diligence 
May in few hours make pleasures of them 
all. 80 

Otho. Not so tedious, Conrad. No, no, 



I must see Ludolph or the — What 's that 

shout ? 
Voices without. Huzza ! huzza ! Long live 

the Emperor ! 
Other voices. Fall back ! Away there ! 
Otho. Say what noise is that ? 

Albert advancing from the hack of the 
Stage, tohither he had hastened on hearing 
the cheers of the soldiery. 

Albert. It is young Gersa, the Hungarian 
prince, 
Pick'd like a red stag from the fallow herd 
Of prisoners. Poor prince, forlorn he steps. 
Slow, and demure, and proud in his de- 
spair. 
If I may judge by his so tragic bearing, 89 
His eye not downcast, and his folded arm. 
He doth this moment wish himself asleep 
Among his fallen captains on yon plains. 

Enter Gersa, in chains, and guarded. 

Otho. Well said, Sir Albert. 
Gersa. Not a word of greeting, 

No welcome to a princely visitor, 
Most mighty Otho ? Will not my great 

host 
Vouchsafe a syllable, before he bids 
His gentlemen conduct me with all care 
To some securest lodging — cold perhaps ! 
Otho. What mood is this? Hath fortune 

touch'd thy brain ? 
Gersa. O kings and princes of this fev'- 
rous world, 100 

What abject things, what mockeries must 

ye be, 
What nerveless minions of safe palaces ! 
When here, a monarch, whose proud foot 

is used 
To fallen princes' necks, as to his stirrup, 
Must needs exclaim that I am mad for- 
sooth, 
Because I cannot flatter with bent knees 
My conqueror ! 

Otho. Gersa, I think you wrong me: 
I think I have a better fame abroad. 

Gersa. I pr'ythee mock me not with gen- 
tle speech, 109 



r64 



TRAGEDIES 



ACT I 



But, as a favour, bid me from thy presence ; 
Let me no longer be the wondering food 
Of all these eyes; pr'ythee command me 

hence ! 
Otho. Do not mistake me, Gersa. That 

you may not, 
Come, fair Aurauthe, try if your soft hands 
Can manage those hard rivets to set free 
So brave a prince and soldier. 

Auranthe (sets him free). Welcome task ! 
Gersa. 1 am wound up in deep astonish- 
ment ! 
Thank you, fair lady. Otho ! emperor ! 
You rob me of myself; my dignity 
Is now your infant; I am a weak child. 120 
Otho. Give me your hand, and let this 

kindly grasp 
Live in our memories. 

Gersa. In mine it vnll. 

I blush to think of my unchasten'd tongue; 
But I was haunted by the monstrous ghost 
Of all our slain battalions. Sire, reflect. 
And pardon you will grant, that, at this 

hour. 
The bruised remnants of our stricken camp 
Are huddling undistinguish'd my dear 

friends, 
With common thousands, into shallow 

graves. 
Otho. Enough, most noble Gersa. You 

are free 130 

To cheer the brave remainder of your host 
By your own healing presence, and that 

too, 
Not as their leader merely, but their king; 
For, as I hear, the wily enemy. 
Who eased the crownet from your infant 

brows, 
Bloody Taraxa, is among the dead. 

Gersa. Then I retire, so generous Otho 

please. 
Bearing with me a weight of benefits 
Too heavy to be borne. 

Otho. It is not so; 

Still understand me, King of Hungary, 140 
Nor judge my open purposes awry. 
Though I did hold you high in my esteem 
For your self's sake, I do not personate 



The stage-play emperor to entrap applause, 
To set the silly sort o' the world agape, 
And make the politic smile; no, I have 

heard 
How in the Council you condemn'd this 

war, 
Urging the perfidy of broken faith, — 
For that I am your friend. 

Gersa. If ever, sire. 

You are my enemy, I dare here swear 150 
'T will not be Gersa's fault. Otho, fare- 
well ! 
Otho. Will you return. Prince, to our 

banqueting ? 
Gersa. As to my father's board I will 

return. 
Otho. Conrad, with all due ceremony, 

give 
The prince a regal escort to his camp; 
Albert, go thou and bear him company. 
Gersa, farewell ! 

Gersa. All happiness attend you ! 

Otho. Return with what good speed you 

may; for soon 

We must consult upon our terms of peace. 

[^Exeunt Gersa and Albert with others. 

And thus a marble column do I build 160 

To prop my empire's dome. Conrad, in 

thee 
I have another steadfast one, to uphold 
The portals of my state; and, for my own 
Pre-eminence and safety, I will strive 
To keep thy strength upon its pedestal. 
For, without thee, this day I might have 

been 
A show-monster about the streets of Prague, 
In chains, as just now stood that noble 

prince: 
And then to me no mercy had been shown. 
For when the conquer'd lion is once dun- 

geon'd, 170 

Who lets him forth again ? or dares to 

give 
An old lion sugar-cakes of mild reprieve ? 
Not to thine ear alone I make confession, 
But to all here, as, by experience, 
I know how the great basement of all 

power •* 






SCENE III 



OTHO THE GREAT 



165 



Is frankness, and a true tongue to the 

world ; 
And how intriguing secrecy is proof 
Of fear and weakness, and a hollow state. 
Conrad, I owe thee much. 

Conrad. To kiss that hand, 

My emperor, is ample recompense, iSo 

For a mere act of duty. 

Otho. Thou art wrong; 

For what can any man on earth do more ? 
We will make trial of your house's wel- 
come. 
My bright Auranthe ! 

Conrad. How is Friedburg honoured ! 

Enter Ethelbert and six Monks. 

Ethelbert. The benison of heaven on your 
head, 
Imperial Otho ! 

Otho. Who stays me ? Speak ! Quick ! 
Ethelbert. Pause but one moment, mighty 



conqueror 



Upon the threshold of this house of joy. 
Otho. Pray, do not prose, good Ethelbert, 
but speak 
What is your purpose. 

Ethelbert. The restoration of some cap- 
tive maids, 190 
Devoted to Heaven's pious ministries. 
Who, driven forth from their religious 

cells, 
And kept in thraldom by our enemy. 
When late this province was a lawless spoil. 
Still weep amid the wild Hungarian camp, 
Though hemm'd around by thy victorious 
arms. 
Otho. Demand the holy sisterhood in our 
name 
From Gersa's tents. Farewell, old Ethel- 
bert. 
Ethelbert. The saints will bless you for 

this pious care. 
Otho. Daughter, your hand; Ludolph's 
would fit it best. 200 

Conrad. Ho ! let the music sound ! 
[Music. Ethelbert raises his hands, as in 
benediction of Otho. Exeunt severally. 
The scene closes on them. 



Scene III. — T/te Country, with the 
Castle in the distance 

Enter Ludolph and Sigifred. 

Ludolph. You have my secret; let it not 

be breathed. 
Sigifred. Still give me leave to wonder 

that the Prince 
Ludolph and the swift Arab are the same; 
Still to rejoice that 't was a German 

arm 
Death doing in a turban'd masquerade. 
Ludolph. The emperor must not know it, 

Sigifred. 
Sigifred. I pr'ythee, why ? What hap- 
pier hour of time 
Could thy pleased star point down upon 

from heaven 
With silver index, bidding thee make 

peace ? 
Ludolph. Still it must not be known, good 

Sigifred; 10 

The star may point oblique. 

Sigifred. If Otho knew 

His son to be that unknown Mussulman, • 
After whose spurring heels he sent me 

forth. 
With one of his well -pleased Olympian 

oaths. 
The charters of man's greatness, at this 

hour 
He would be watching round the castle 

walls, 
And, like an anxious warder, strain his 

sight 
For the first glimpse of such a son re- 

turn'd — 
Ludolph, that blast of the Hungarians, 
That Saracenic meteor of the fight, 20 

That silent fury, whose fell scimitar 
Kept danger all aloof from Otho's head, 
And left him space for wonder. 

Ludolph. Say no more. 

Not as a swordsman would I pardon claim, 
But as a son. The bronzed centurion. 
Long toil'd in foreign wars, and whose high 

deeds 
Are shaded in a forest of tall spears, 



i66 



TRAGEDIES 



ACT I 



Known only to his troop, hath greater plea 
Of favour with my sire than I can have. 
Sigifred, My lord, forgive me that I can- 
not see 30 
How this proud temper with clear reason 

squares. 
What made you then, with such an anxious 

love, 
Hover around that life, whose bitter days 
You vext with bad revolt ? Was 't opium. 
Or the mad-fumed wine ? Nay, do not 

frown, 
I rather would grieve with you than up- 
braid. 
Ludolph. I do believe you. No, 't was not 
to make 
A father liis son's debtor, or to heal 
His deep heart-sickness for a rebel child. 
'T was done in memory of my boyish days. 
Poor cancel for his kindness to my youth, 41 
For all his calming of my childish griefs. 
And all his smiles upon my merriment. 
No, not a thousand foughten fields could 

sponge 
Those days paternal from my memory. 
Though now upon my head he heaps dis- 
grace. 
Sigifred. My prince, you think too 

harshly — 
Ludolph. Can I so ? 

Hath he not gall'd my spirit to the quick ? 
And with a sullen rigour obstinate 49 

Pour'd out a phial of wrath upon my faults ? 
Hunted me as the Tartar does the boar, 
Driven me to the very edge o' the world. 
And almost put a price upon my head ? 
Sigifred. Remember how he spared the 

rebel lords. 
Ludolph. Yes, yes, I know he hath a no- 
ble nature 
That cannot trample on the fallen. But 

his 
Is not the only proud heart in his realm. 
He hath wrong'd me, and I have done him 

wrong; 
He hath loved me, and I have shown him 

kindness; 
We should be almost equal. 



Sigifred. Yet, for all this, 

I would you had appear'd among those 

lords, 61 

And ta'en his favour. 

Ludolph. Ha ! till now I thought 

My friend had held poor Ludolph's honour 

dear. 
What ! would you have me sue before his 

throne 
And kiss the courtier's missal, its silk 

steps ? 
Or hug the golden housings of his steed. 
Amid a camp, whose steeled swarms I 

dared 
But yesterday ? And, at the trumpet 

sound, 
Bow like some unknown mercenary's flag 
And lick the soiled grass ? No, no, my 

friend, 70 

I would not, I, be pardon'd in the heap. 
And bless indemnity with all that scum, — 
Those men I mean, who on my shoulders 

propp'd 
Their weak rebellion, winning me with 

lies, 
And pitying forsooth my many wrongs; 
Poor self-deceived wretches, who must 

think 
Each one himself a king in embryo, 
Because some dozen vassals cried — my 

lord! 
Cowards, who never knew their little hearts. 
Till flurried danger held the mirror up, 80 
And then they own'd themselves without a 

blush. 
Curling, like spaniels, round my father's 

feet. 
Such things deserted me and are forgiven, 
While I, less guilty, am an outcast still. 
And will be, for I love such fair disgrace. 
Sigifred. I know the clear truth; so 

would Otho see, 
For he is just and noble. Fain would I 
Be pleader for you — 

Ludolph. He '11 hear none of it; 

You know his temper, hot, proud, obstinate; 
Endanger not yourself so uselessly. go 

I will encounter his thwart spleen myself. 



SCENE I 



OTHO THE GREAT 



167 



To-day, at the Duke Conrad's, where he 

keeps 
His crowded state after the victory, 
There will I be, a most unwelcome guest. 
And parley with him, as a son should do, 
Who doubly loathes a father's tyranny; 
Tell him how feeble is that tyranny; 
How the relationship of father and son 
Is no more valid than a silken leash 
Where lions tug adverse, if love grow not 
From interchanged love through many 

years. 10 1 

Aye, and those turreted Franconian walls, 
Like to a jealous casket, hold my pearl — 
My fair Auranthe ! Yes, I will be there. 
Sigifred. Be not so rash; wait till his 

wrath shall pass, 
Until his royal spirit softly ebbs 
Self-influenced ; then, in his morning dreams 
He will forgive thee, and awake in grief 
To have not thy good morrow. 

Ludolph. Yes, to-day 

I must be there, while her young pulses 

beat 1 10 

Among the new - plumed minions of the 

war. 
Have you seen her of late ? No ? Au- 
ranthe, 
Franconia's fair sister, 't is I mean. 
She should be paler for my troublous 

days — 
And there it is — my father's iron lips 
Have sworn divorcement 'twixt me and my 

right. 
Sigifred (aside) . Auranthe ! I had hoped 

this whim had pass'd. 
Ludolph. And, Sigifred, with all his love 

of justice, 
When will he take that grandchild in his 

arms. 
That, by my love I swear, shall soon be 

his ? 120 

This reconcilement is impossible, 
For see — but who are these ? 

Sigifred. They are messengers 

From our great emperor; to you, I doubt 

not, 
For couriers are abroad to seek you out. 



Enter Theodore and Gonfred. 
Theodore. Seeing so many vigilant eyes 
explore 
The province to invite your highness back 
To your high dignities, we are too happy. 
Gonfred. We have eloquence to colour 
justly 
The emperor's anxious wishes. 

Ludolph. Go. I follow you. 

\_Exeu7it Theodore atid Gonfred. 

I play the prude: it is but venturing — 

Why should he be so earnest ? Come, my 

friend, 13 1 

Let us to Friedburg castle. 



ACT II 

Scene I. — An antechamber in the Castle 

Enter Ludolph and Sigifred. 

Ludolph. No more advices, no more cau- 
tioning; 

I leave it all to fate — to any thing ! 

I cannot square my conduct to time, place. 

Or circumstance; to me 'tis all a mist ! 
Sigifred. I say no more. 
Ludolph. It seems I am to wait 

Here in the anteroom ; — that may be a 
trifle. 

You see now how I dance attendance here, 

Without that tyrant temper, you so blame, 

Snapping the rein. You have medicined 
me 

With good advices; and I here remain, 10 

In this most honourable anteroom, 

Your patient scholar. 

Sigifred. Do not wrong me, Prince. 

By Heavens, I 'd rather kiss Duke Conrad's 
slipper. 

When in the morning he doth yawn with 
pride. 

Than see you humbled but a half-degree ! 

Truth is, the Emperor would fain dismiss 

The Nobles ere he sees you. 

Enter Gonfred from the Council-room. 
Ludolph. Well, sir ! what ? 



1 68 



TRAGEDIES 



ACT II 



Gonfred. Great honour to the Prince ! 

The Eniperor, 
Hearing that his brave son had reappeared, 
Instant dismiss'd the Council from his 

sight, 20 

As Jove fans off the clouds. Even now 

they pass. \_Exit. 

Enter the Nobles from the Council-room. 
They cross the Stage, bowing with respect 
to LuDOLPH, he frowning on them. Con- 
rad follows. Exeunt Nobles. 

Ludolph. Not the discoloured poisons of 

a fen, 
Which he, who breathes, feels warning of 

his death, 
Could taste so nauseous to the bodily sense, 
As these prodigious sycophants disgust 
The soul's tine palate. 

Conrad. Princely Ludolph, hail ! 

Welcome, thou younger sceptre to the 

realm ! 
Strength to thy virgin crownet's golden 

buds. 
That they, against the winter of thy sire, 
May burst, and swell, and flourish round 

thy brows, 30 

Maturing to a weighty diadem ! 
Yet be tiiat hour far off; and may he live, 
Who waits for thee, as the chapp'd earth 

for rain. 
Set my life's star ! I have lived long 

enough, 
Since under my glad roof, propitiously, 
Father and son each other re-possess. 
Ludolph. Fine wording, Duke ! but words 

could never yet 
Forestall the fates; have you not learnt that 

yet? 
Let me look well: your features are the 

same; 
Your gait the same ; your hair of the same 

shade; 40 

As one I knew some passed weeks ago, 
Who sung far different notes into mine 

ears. 
I have mine own particular comments on 't; 
You have your own, perhaps. 



Conrad. My gracious Prince, 

All men may err. In truth I was deceived 
In your great father's nature, as you were. 
Had I known that of him I have since 

known, 
And what you soon will learn, I would have 

turn'd 
My sword to my own throat, rather than 

held 
Its threatening edge against a good King's 

quiet: 50 

Or with one word fever'd you, gentle 

Prince, 
Who seem'd to me, as rugged times then 

went, 
Indeed too much oppress'd. May I be 

bold 
To tell the Emperor you will haste to him ? 
Ludolph. Your Dukedom's privilege will 

grant so much. 

[Exit COXRAD. 
He 's very close to Otho, a tight leech ! 
Your hand — I go ! Ha ! here the thunder 

comes 
Sullen against the wind ! If in two angry 

brows 
My safety lies, then Sigifred, I 'm safe. 

Enter Otho and Conrad. 

Otho. Will you make Titan play the 

lackey-page 60 

To chattering pigmies ? I would have you 

know 
That such neglect of our high Majesty 
Annuls all feel of kindred. What is son, — 
Or friend — or brother — or all ties of 

blood, — 
When the whole kingdom, centred in our- 

self. 
Is rudely slighted ? Who am I to wait ? 
By Peter's chair ! I have upon my tongue 
A word to fright the proudest spirit 

here ! — 
Death ! — and slow tortures to the hardy 

fool. 
Who dares take such large charter from 

our smiles ! 70 

Conrad, we would be private ! Sigifred ! 



SCENE I 



OTHO THE GREAT 



169 



Off ! And none pass this way on pain of 
death ! 

\_Exeunt Conrad and Sigifred. 
Ludolph. This was but half expected, my 
good sire, 
Yet I am grieved at it, to the full height, 
As though my hopes of favour had been 
whole. 
OtTio. How you indulge yourself ! What 

can you hope for ? 
Ludolph. Nothing, my liege, I have to 
hope for nothing. 
I come to greet you as a loving son. 
And then depart, if I may be so free, 
Seeing that blood of yours in my warm 
veins So 

Has not yet mitigated into milk. 
Otho. What would you, sir ? 
Ludolph. A lenient banishment; 

So please you let me unmolested pass 
This Conrad's gates, to the wide air again. 
I want no more. A rebel wants no more. 

Olho. And shall I let a rebel loose again 
To muster kites and eagles 'gainst my 

head? 
No, obstinate boy, you shall be kept caged 

up. 
Served with harsh food, with scum for 
Sunday-drink. 
Ludolph. Indeed ! 

Otho. And chains too heavy for your life: 
I '11 choose a jailer, whose swart monstrous 
face go 

Shall be a hell to look upon, and she — 
Ludolph. Ha ! 

Otho. Shall be your fair Auranthe. 
Ludolph. Amaze ! Amaze ! 

Otho. To-day you marry her. 
Ludolph. This is a sharp jest ! 

Otho. No. None at all. When have I 

said a lie ? 
Ludolph. If I sleep not, I am a waking 

wretch. 
Otho. Not a word more. Let me em- 
brace my child. 
Ludolph. I dare not. 'T would pollute 
so good a father ! 
O heavy crime! that your son's blinded eyes 



Could not see all his parent's love aright. 
As now I see it. Be not kind to me — loi 
Punish me not with favour. 

Olho. Are you sure, 

Ludolph, you have no saving plea in store ? 
Ludolph. My father, none ! 
Otho. Then you astonish me. 

Ludolph. No, I have no plea. Disobedi- 
ence, 
Rebellion, obstinacy, blasphemy, 
Are all my counsellors. If they can make 
My crooked deeds show good and plausible, 
Then grant me loving pardon, but not else, 
Good Gods ! not else, in any way, my liege ! 
Otho. You are a most perplexing, noble 
boy. Ill 

Ludolph. You not less a perplexing noble 

father. 
Otho. Well, you shall have free passport 
through the gates. 
Farewell ! 

Ludolph. Farewell ! and by these tears 
believe. 
And still remember, I repent in pain 
All my misdeeds ! 

Otho. Ludolph, I will ! I will ! 

But, Ludolph, ere you go, I would inquire 
If you, in all your wandering, ever met 
A certain Arab haunting in tliese parts. 
Ludolph. No, my good lord, I cannot say 
I did. 120 

Otho. Make not your father blind before 
his time; 
Nor let these arms paternal hunger more 
For an embrace, to dull the appetite 
Of my great love for thee, my supreme 

child ! 
Come close, and let me breathe into thine 

ear. 
I knew you through disguise. You are the 

Arab ! 
You can't deny it. [^Embracing him. 

Ludolph. Happiest of days ! 

Otho. We '11 make it so. 
Ludolph. 'Stead of one fatted calf 

Ten hecatombs shall bellow out their last, 
Smote 'twixt the horns by the death-stun- 
ningr mace 130 



lyo 



TRAGEDIES 



ACT II 



Of Mars, and all the soldiery shall feast 
Nobly as Nimrod's masons, when the 

towers 
Of Nineveh new kiss'd the parted clonds ! 
Otho. Large as a God speak out, where 

all is thine. 
Ludolph. Ay, father, but the fire in my 
sad breast 
Is quench'd with inward tears ! I must 

rejoice 
For yon, whose wings so shadow over me 
In tender victory, but for myself 
I still must mourn. The fair Auranthe 
mine ! '39 

Too great a boon ! I pr'ythee let me ask 
What more than I know of could so have 

changed 
Your purpose touching her. 

Otho. At a word, this: 

In no deed did you give me more offence 
Than your rejection of Erminia. 
To my appalling, I saw too good proof 
Of your keen-eyed suspicion, — she is 
naught ! 
Ludolph. You are convinced ? 
Otho. Ay, spite of her sweet looks. 

O, that my brother's daughter should so fall ! 
Her fame has pass'd into the grosser lips 
Of soldiers in their cups. 

Ludolph. 'T is very sad. 

Otho. No more of her. Auranthe — Lu- 
dolph, come ! 151 
This marriage be the bond of endless peace ! 

[^Exeunt. 

Scene II. — The entrance of Gersa's 
Tent in the Hungarian Camp 

Enter Erminia. 

Erminia. Where ! where ! where shall I 
find a messenger ? 
A trusty soul ? A good man in the camp ? 
Shall I go myself ? Monstrous wicked- 
ness ! 
O cursed Conrad ! devilish Auranthe ! 
Here is proof palpable as the bright sun ! 
O for a voice to reach the Emperor's ears ! 
IShouts in the camp. 



Enter an Hungarian Captain. 
Captain. Fair prisoner, you hear those 
joyous shouts ? 
The king — aye, now oux king, — but still 

your slave, 
Young Gersa, from a short captivity 
Has just returu'd. He bids me say, bright l 

dame, 10 

That even the homage of his ranged chiefs 
Cures not his keen impatience to behold 
Such beauty once again. What ails you, 
lady? 
Erminia. Say, is not that a German, yon- 
der ? There ! 
Captain. Methinks by his stout bearing 
he should be — 
Yes — it is Albert; a brave German knight, 
And much in the Emperor's favour. 

Erminia. I would fain 

Inquire of friends and kinsfolk; how they 

fared 
In these rough times. Brave soldier, as 

you pass 
To royal Gersa with my humble thanks, 20 
Will you send yonder knight to me ? 
Captain. I will. [ExU. 

Erminia. Yes, he was ever known to be 
a man 
Frank, open, generous; Albert I may trust. 
O proof ! proof ! proof ! Albert 's an 

honest man; 
Not Ethelbert the monk, if he were here, 
Would I hold more trustworthy. Now ! 

Enter Albert. 

Albert. Good Gods ! 

Lady Erminia ! are you prisoner 
In this beleaguer'd camp? Or are yon 

here 
Of your own will ? You pleased to send 

for me. 
By Venus, 't is a pity I knew not 3° 

Your plight before, and, by her Son, I 

swear 
To do you every service you can ask. 
What would the fairest — ? 

Erminia. Albert, will you swear ? 

Albert. I have. Well? 



SCENE II 



OTHO THE GREAT 



171 



Erminia. Albert, you have fame to lose. 
If men, in court and camp, lie not outright. 
You should be, from a thousand, cliosen 

forth 
To do an honest deed. Shall I confide — ? 
Albert. Aye, any thing to me, fair crea- 
ture. Do ; 
Dictate my task. Sweet woman, — 

Erminia. Truce with that. 

You understand me not ; and, in your 
speech, 40 

I see how far the slander is abroad. 
Without proof could you think me inno- 
cent ? 
Albert. Lady, I should rejoice to know 

you so. 
Erminia. If you have any pity for a 
maid, 
Suffering a daily death from evil tongues; 
Any compassion for that Emperor's niece. 
Who, for your bright sword and clear hon- 
esty. 
Lifted you from the crowd of common men 
Into the lap of honour; — save me, knight ! 
Albert. How? Make it clear; if it be 
possible, 50 

I by the banner of Saint Maurice swear 
To right you. 

Erminia. Possible ! — Easy. O my 
heart ! 
This letter 's not so soil'd but you may 

read it ; — 
Possible ! There — that letter ! Read — 
read it. \_Gives him a letter. 

Albert (reading). 

' To the Duke Conrad. — Forget the 
threat you made at parting, and I will for- 
get to send the Emperor letters and papers 
of yours I have become possessed of. His 
life is no trifle to me; his death you shall 
find none to yourself.' (Speaks to himself.) 
'Tis me — my life that's pleaded for! 
(Reads.) ' He, for his own sake, will be 
dumb as the grave. Erminia has my shame 
fix'd upon her, sure as a wen. We are 
safe. 

' AURANTHE.' 



A she-devil ! A dragon ! I her imp ! 
Fire of Hell ! Auranthe — lewd demon ! 
Where got you this ? Where ? When ? 
Ermiyiia. I found it in the tent, among 
some spoils 
Which, being noble, fell to Gersa's lot. 70 
Come in, and see. 

{^They go in and return. 
Albert. Villainy ! Villainy ! 

Conrad's sword, his corslet, and his helm, 
And his letter. Caitiff, he shall feel — 
Erminia. I see you are thunderstruck. 

Haste, haste away ! 
Albert. O, I am tortured by this villainy. 
Erminia. You needs must be. Carry it 
swift to Otho; 
Tell him, moreover, I am prisoner 
Here in this camp, where all the sisterhood. 
Forced from their quiet cells, are parcel'd 

out 
For slaves among these Huns. Away ! 
Away ! 80 

Albert. I am gone. 

Erminia. Swift be your steed ! Within 
this hour 
The Emperor will see it. 

Albert. Ere I sleep: 

That I can swear. [^Hurries out. 

Gersa (without). Brave captains ! thanks. 
Enough 
Of loyal homage now ! 

Enter Gersa. 

Erminia. Hail, royal Hun ! 

Gersa. What means this, fair one ? Why 
in such alarm ? 

Who was it hurried by me so distract ? 

It seem'd you were in deep discourse to- 
gether; 

Your doctrine has not been so harsh to 
him 

As to my poor deserts. Come, come, be 
plain. 

I am no jealous fool to kill you both, 90 

Or, for such trifles, rob th' adorned world 

Of such a beauteous vestal. 

Erminia. I grieve, my Lord, 

To hear j-ou condescend to ribald-phrase. 



172 



TRAGEDIES 



ACT II 



Gersa. This is too much ! Hearken, my 

lady pure ! 
Erminia. Silence ! and hear the magic of 
a name — 
Erminia ! I am she, — the Emperor's 

niece ! 
Praised be the Heavens, I now dare own 
myself ! 
Gersa. Erminia ! Indeed ! I 've heard 
of her, 
Pr'ythee, fair lady, what chance brought 
you here ? 99 

Erminia. Ask your own soldiers. 
Gersa. And you dare own your name. 
For loveliness you may — and for the rest 
My vein is not censorious. 

Erminia. Alas ! poor me ! 

'Tis false indeed. 

Gersa. Indeed you are too fair: 

The swan, soft leaning on her fledgy breast, 
When to the stream she launches, looks 

not back 
With such a tender grace ; nor are her wings 
So white as your soul is, if that but be 
Twin picture to your face, Erminia ! 
To-day, for the first day, I am a king, 109 
Yet would I give my unworn crown away 
To know you spotless. 

Erminia. Trust me one day more. 

Generously, without more certain guaran- 
tee. 
Than this poor face you deign to praise so 

much; 
After that, say and do whate'er you please. 
If I have any knowledge of you, sir, 
I think, nay I am sure, you will grieve 

miich 
To hear my story. O be gentle to me, 
For I am sick and faint with many wrongs. 
Tired out, and weary-worn with contume- 
lies. 119 
Gersa. Poor lady ! 

Enter Ethelbert. 

Erminia. Gentle Prince, 't is false indeed. 
Good morrow, holy father ! I have had 
Your prayers, though I look'd for you in 
vain. 



Ethelbert. Blessings upon you, daughter ! 
Sure you look 
Too cheerful for these foul pernicious days. 
Young man, you heard this virgiu say 't was 

false, — 
'T is false, I say. What ! can you not 

employ 
Your temper elsewhere, 'mong those burly 

tents, 
But you must taunt this dove, for she hath 

lost 
The Eagle Otho to beat off assault ? 
Fie ! Fie ! But I will be her guard my- 
self, 130 
I' the Emperor's name. I here demand 
Herself, and all her sisterhood. She false ! 
Gersa. Peace ! peace, old man ! I can- 
not think she is. 
Ethelbert. Whom I have known from her 
first infancy, 
Baptized her in the bosom of the Church, 
Watch'd her, as anxious husbandmen the 

grain. 
From the first shoot till the unripe mid- 
May, 
Then to the tender ear of her June days. 
Which, lifting sweet abroad its timid g^een. 
Is blighted by the touch of calumny; 140 
You cannot credit such a monstrous tale. 
Gersa. I cannot. Take her. Fair Er- 
minia, 
I follow you to Friedburg, — is 't not so ? 
Erminia. Ay, so we purpose. 
Ethelbert. Daughter, do you so ? 

How 's this ? I marvel ! Yet you look 
not mad. 
Erminia. I have good news to tell you, 

Ethelbert. 
Gersa. Ho ! ho, there ! Guards ! 
Your blessing, father ! Sweet Erminia, 
Believe me, I am well nigh sure — 

Erminia. Farewell 

Short time will show. {Enter Chiefs. 

Yes, father Ethelbert, 

I have news precious as we pass along. 151 

Ethelbert. Dear daughter, you shall guide 

me. 
Erminia. To no ill. 



SCENE I 



OTHO THE GREAT 



173 



Gersa. Command an escort to the Fried- 
burg lines. [^Exeunt Chiefs. 
Pray let me lead. Fair lady, forget not 
Gersa, how he believed you innocent. 
I follow you to Friedburg with all speed. 

\_Exeunt. 

ACT III 
Scene I. — The Country 
Enter Albert. 
Albert. O that the earth were empty, as 

when Cain 
Had no perplexity to bide his head ! 
Or that the sword of some brave enemy 
Had put a sudden stop to my hot breath, 
And hurl'd me down the illimital)le gulf 
Of times past, unremember'd ! Better so 
Than thus fast-limed in a cursed snare, 
The white limbs of a wanton. This the end 
Of an aspiring life ! My boyhood past 
In feud with wolves and bears, when no 

eye saw 10 

The solitary warfare, fought for love 
Of honour "mid the growling wilderness. 
My sturdier youth, maturing to the sword. 
Won by the syren-trumpets, and the riug 
Of shields upon the pavement, when bright 

mail'd 
Henry the Fowler pass'd the streets of 

Prague. 
Was 't to this end I louted and became 
The menial of Mars, and held a spear 
Sway'd by command, as corn is by the 

wind ? 
Is it for this, I now am lifted up 20 

By Europe's throned Emperor, to see 
My honour be my executiouer, — 
My love of fame, my prided honesty 
Put to the torture for confessional ? 
Then the damn'd crime of blurting to the 

world 
A woman's secret ! — Though a fiend she 

be. 
Too tender of my ignominious life; 
But then to wrong the generous Emperor 
In such a searching point, were to give up 



My soul for foot-ball at Hell's holiday ! 30 
I must confess, — aud cut my throat, — to- 
day ? 
To-morrow ? Ho ! some wine ! 

Enter Sigifred. 

Sigifred. A fine humour — 

Albert. Who goes there ? Count Sigi- 
fred ? Ha! ha! 
Sigifred. What, man, do you mistake the 
hollow sky 
For a throng'd tavern, — aud these stubbed 

trees 
For old serge hangings, — me, your humble 

friend. 
For a poor waiter ? Why, man, how you 

stare ! 
What gipsies have you been carousing 

with? 
No, no more wine; methinks you've had 
enough. 39 

Albert. You well may laugh and banter. 
What a fool 
An injury may make of a staid man ! 
You shall know all anon. 

Sigifred. Some tavern brawl ? 

Albert. 'T was with some people out of 
common reach; 
Revenge is difficult. 

Sigifred. I am your friend; 

We meet again to-day, and can confer 
Upon it. For the present I 'm in haste. 
Albert. Whither? 

Sigifred- To fetch King Gersa to the 
feast. 
The Emperor on this marriage is so hot, 
Pray Heaven it end not in apoplexy ! 
The very porters, as I pass'd the doors, 50 
Heard his loud laugh, aud auswer'd in full 

choir. 
I marvel, Albert, you delay so long 
From these bright revelries; go, show your- 
self, 
You may be made a duke. 

Albert. Ay, very like: 

Pray, what day has his Highness fix'd 
upon ? 
Sigifred. For what ? 



174 



TRAGEDIES 



ACT III 



Albert. The marriage. What else can I 

mean ? 
Sigifred. To-day. O, I forgot, you could 
not know; 
The news is scarce a minute old with me. 
Albert. Married to-day ! To-day ! You 

did not say so ? 
Siyifred. Now, while I speak to you, 
their comely heads 60 

Are bow'd before the mitre. 

Albert. O ! monstrous ! 

Sigifred. What is this ? 

Albert. Nothing, Sigifred. Farewell ! 

We '11 meet upon our subject. Farewell, 

count ! \^Exit. 

Sigifred. Is this clear-headed Albert ? 

He brain-turn'd ! 

'T is as portentous as a meteor. [Exit. 

Scene II. — An Apartment in the Castle 
Enter as from the Marriage, Otho, Lu- 

DOLPH, AURANTHE, CONRAD, NobleS, 

Knights, Ladies, etc. Music. 

Otho. Now Ludolph ! Now, Auranthe ! 
Daughter fair ! 
What can I find to grace your nuptial 

day 
More than my love, and these wide realms 
in fee ? 
Ludolph. I have too much. 
Auranthe. And I, my liege, by far. 

Ludolph. Auranthe ! I have ! O, my 
bride, my love ! 
Not all the gaze upon us can restrain 
My eyes, too long poor exiles from thy 

face, 
From adoration, and my foolish tongue 
From uttering soft responses to the love 
I see in thy mute beauty beaming forth ! 10 
Fair creature, bless me with a single word ! 
All mine ! 

Auranthe. Spare, spare me, my Lord; I 

swoon else. 
Ludolph. Soft beauty ! by to-morrow I 
should die, 
Wert thou not mine. 

[They talk apart. 



1st Lady. How deep she has bewitch'd 
him ! 

1st Knight. Ask you for her recipe for 
love philtres. 

2c? Lady. They hold the Emperor in ad- 
miration. 

Otho. If ever king was happy, that am I ! 
What are the cities 'yond the Alps to 

me. 
The provinces about the Danube's mouth, 
The promise of fair sail beyond the Rhone; 
Or routing out of Hyperborean hordes, 21 
To these fair children, stars of a new age ? 
Unless perchance I might rejoice to win 
This little ball of earth, and chuck it them 
To play with ! 

Auranthe. Nay, my Lord, I do not know. 

Ludolph. Let me not famish. 

Otho {to Conrad). Good Franconia, 

You heard what oath I sware, as the sun 

rose. 
That unless Heaven would send me back 

my sou. 
My Arab, — no soft music should enrich 
The cool wine, kiss'd off with a soldier's 
smack; 30 

Now all my empire, barter'd for one feast, 
Seems poverty. 

Conrad. Upon the neighbour-plain 

The heralds have prepared a royal lists; 
Your kniglits, found war-proof in the bloody 

field. 
Speed to the game. 

Otho. Well, Ludolph, what say you ? 

Ludolph. My lord ! 

Otho. A tourney ? 

Conrad. Or, if 't please you best — 

Ludolph. I want no more ! 

1st Lady. He soars ! 

2d Lady. Past all reason. 

Ludolph. Though heaven's choir 
Should in a vast circumference descend 39 
And sing for my delight, I 'd stop my ears ! 
Though bright Apollo's car stood burning 

here. 
And he put out an arm to bid me mount, 
His touch an immortality, not I ! 
This earth, this palace, this room, Auranthe ! 



SCENE II 



OTHO THE GREAT 



^75 



Oiho. This is a little painful; just too 
much. 
Jonrad, if he flames longer in this wise, 

shall believe in wizard-woven loves 
ind old romances; but I '11 break the spell, 
iudolph ! 

Conrad. He '11 be calm, anon. 

Ludolpk. You call'd ! 

res, yes, yes, I offend. You must forgive 

me: so 

fot being quite recover'd from the stun 

>f your large bounties. A tourney, is it 

not? 
, [^ senet heard faintly. 

I Conrad. The trumpets reach us. 
' Ethelhert (without). On your peril, sirs, 
•etain us ! 

1st Voice (without). Let not the abbot 
pass. 

2d Voice (without). No, 
•n your lives ! 

1st Voice (without). Holy father, you 
must not. 

Ethelbert (without). Otho ! 

Otho. Who calls on Otho ? 

Ethelbert (without). Ethelbert ! 

. Otho. Let him come in. 
I 

Enter Ethelbert leading in Erminia. 

Thou cursed abbot, why 
!ast brought pollution to our holy rites ? 
ast thou no fear of hangman, or the fag- 

got? 
Ludolph. What portent — what strange 

prodigy is this ? 6o 

Conrad. Av/aj ! 
Ethelbert. You, Duke ? 

Erminia. Albert has surely fail'd me ! 
Dok at the Emperor's brow upon me 

bent! 
Ethelbert. A sad delay ! 
Conrad. Away, thou guilty thing ! 

Ethelbert. You again, Duke ? Justice, 

most noble Otho ! 
ou — go to your sister there and plot 

again, 
quick plot, swift as thought to save your 

heads ; 



For lo ! the toils are spread around your 

den, 
The world is all agape to see dragg'd forth 
Two ugly monsters. 

Ludolph. What means he, my lord ? 

Conrad. I cannot guess. 
Ethelbert. Best ask your lady sister, 

Whether the riddle puzzles her beyond 71 
The power of utterance. 

Conrad. Foul barbarian, cease; 

The Princess faints ! 

Ludolph. Stab him ! O, sweetest wife ! 
[Atteiidants bear o^Auranthe. 
Erminia. Alas ! 
Ethelbert. Your wife ! 

Ludolph. Ay, Satan ! does thatyerkye ? 
Ethelbert. Wife ! so soon ! 
Ludolph. Ay, wife ! Oh, impudence ! 
Thou bitter mischief ! Venomous bad 

priest ! 
How dar'st thou lift those beetle brows at 

me? 
Me — the prince Ludolph, in this presence 
here, 78 

Upon my marriage day, and scandalize 
My joys with such opprobrious surprise ? 
Wife ! Why dost linger on that syllable. 
As if it were some demon's name pro- 
nounced 
To summon harmful lightning, and make 

yawn 
The sleepy thunder ? Hast no sense of 

fear? 
No ounce of man in thy mortality ? 
Tremble ! for, at my nod, the sharpen'd axe 
Will make thy bold tongue quiver to the 

roots, 
Those gray lids wink, and thou not know 
it, monk ! 
Ethelbert. O, poor deceived Prince ! I 
pity thee ! 89 

Great Otho ! I claim justice — 

Ludolph. Thou shalt have 't ! 

Thine arms from forth a pulpit of hot fire 
Shall sprawl distracted ! O that that dull 

cowl 
Were some most sensitive portion of thy 
life. 



176 



TRAGEDIES 



ACT III 



That I might give it to my hounds to tear ! 

Thy girdle some fine zealous-pained nerve 

To girth ray saddle ! And those devil's 
beads 

Each one a life, that I might, every day, 

Crush cue with Vulcan's hammer ! 

Otho. Peace, my son ; 

You far outstrip my spleen in this affair. 

Let us be calm, and hear the abbot's plea 

For this intrusion. 

Ludolph. I am silent, sire. 

Otho. Courad, see all depart not wanted 
here. 102 

\_Exeunt Knights, Ladies, etc. 

Ludolph, be calm. Ethelbert, peace awhile. 

This mystery demands an audience 

Of a just judge, and that will Otho be. 
Ludolph. Why has he time to breathe 

another word ? 
Otho. Ludolph, old Ethelbert, be sure, 
comes not 

To beard us for no cause ; he 's not the 
man 

To cry himself up an ambassador 

Without credentials. 

Ludolph. I '11 chain up myself. 

Otho. Old abbot, stand here forth. Lady 

Erminia, m 

Sit. And now, abbot ! what have you to 
say? 

Our ear is open. First we here denounce 

Hard penalties against thee, if 't be found 

The caiise for which you have disturb'd us 
here, 

"Making our bright hours muddy, be a thing 

Of little moment. 

Ethelbert. See this innocent ! 

Otho ! thou father of the people call'd. 

Is her life nothing ? Her fair honour no- 
thing ? 

Her tears from matins until even-song 120 

Nothing ? Her burst heart nothing ? Em- 
peror ! 

Is this your gentle niece — the simplest 
flower 

Of the world's herbal — this fair lily 
blanch'd 

Still with the dews of piety, this meek lady 



Here sitting like an angel newly-shent, 
Who veils its snowy wings and grows all 

pale, — 
Is she nothing ? 

Otho. What more to the purpose, abbot ? 

Ludolph. Whither is he winding ? 

Conrad. No clue yet ! 

Ethelbert. You have heard, my Liege, and 

so, no doubt, all here, 129 

Foul, poisonous, malignant whisperings; 

Nay open speech, rude mockery grown 

common. 
Against the spotless nature and clear fame 
Of the princess Erminia, your niece. 
I have intruded here thus suddenly, 
Because 1 hold those base weeds, with tight 

hand. 
Which now disfigure her fair growing stem, 
Waiting but for your sign to pull them up 
By the dark roots, and leave her palpable. 
To all men's sight, a lady innocent. 
The ignominy of that whisper'd tale 140 
About a midnight gallant, seen to climb 
A window to her chamber neighbour'd 

near, 
I will from her turn off, and put the load 
On the right shoulders; on that wretch's 

head, 
Who, by close stratagems, did save her- 
self, 
Chiefly by shifting to this lady's room 
A rope-ladder for false witness. 

Ludolph. Most atrocious ! 

Otho. Ethelbert, proceed. 
Ethelbert. With sad lips I shall: 

For, in the healing of one wound, I fear 
To make a greater. His young highness 
here 150 

To-day was married. 
Ludolph. Good. 

Ethelbert. Would it were good ! 

Yet why do I delay to spread abroad 
The names of those two vipers, from whose 

jaw 
A deadly breath went forth to taint and 

blast 
This guileless lady ? 

Otho. Abbot, speak their names. 



SCENE II 



OTHO THE GREAT 



177 



Ethelbert. A minute first. It cannot be 
— but may 
I ask, great judge, if you to-day have put 
A letter by unread ? 

Otho. Does 't end in this ? 

Conrad. Out with their names ! 
Ethelbert. Bold sinner, say you so ? 

Ludolph. Out, hideous monk ! 
Otho. Confess, or by the wlieel — 

Ethelbert. My evidence cannot be far 
away; 161 

And, though it never come, be on my head 
The crime of passing an attaint upon 
The slanderers of this virgin. 

Ludolph. Speak aloud ! 

Ethelbert. Auranthe, and her brother 

there. 
Conrad. Amaze ! 

Ludolph. Throw them from the win- 
dows ! 
Otho. Do what you will ! 
Ludolph. What shall I do with them ? 
Something of quick dispatch, for should she 

hear, 
My soft Auranthe, her sweet mercy would 
Prevail against my fury. Damned priest ! 
What swift death wilt thou die ? As to the 
lady, 171 

I touch her not. 

Ethelbert. Illustrious Otho, stay ! 

An ample store of misery thou hast. 
Choke not the granary of thy noble mind 
With more bad bitter grain, too difficult 
A cud for the repentance of a man 
Gray-growing. To thee only I appeal, 
Not to thy noble son, whose yeasting youth 
Will clear itself, and crystal turn again. 
A young man's heart, by Heaven's bless- 
ing, is 180 
A wide world, where a thousand new-born 

hopes 
Empurple fresh the melancholy blood : 
But an old man's is narrow, tenantless 
Of hopes, and stuff 'd with many memories, 
Which, being pleasant, ease the heavy 

pulse — 
Painful, clog up and stagnate. Weigh this 
matter 



Even as a miser balances his coin ; 

And, in the name of mercy, give command 

That your knight Albert be brought here 

before you. 189 

He will expound this riddle; he will show 
A noon-day proof of bad Auranthe's guilt. 
Otho. Let Albert straight be suinmon'd. 
\_Exit one of the Nobles. 
Ludolph. Impossible ! 

I cannot doubt — I will not — no — to 

doubt 
Is to be ashes ! — wither'd up to death ! 
Otho. My gentle Ludolph, harbour not a 

fear; 
You do yourself much wrong. 

Ludolph. O, wretched dolt ! 

Now, when my foot is almost on thy neck. 
Wilt thou infuriate me? Proof! Thou fool! 
Why wilt thou tease impossibility igq 

With such a thick-skuU'd persevering suit ? 
Fanatic obstinacy ! Prodigy ! 
Monster of folly ! Ghost of a turn'd 

brain ! 
You puzzle me, — you haunt me, — when I 

dream 
Of you my brain will split ! Bold sor- 
cerer ! 
Juggler ! May I come near you ? On my 

soul 
I know not whether to pity, curse, or 

laugh. 

Enter Albert, and the Nobleman. 

Here, Albert, this old phantom wants a 
proof ! 

Give him his proof ! A camel's load of 
proofs ! 
Otho. Albert, I speak to you as a man 

Whose words once utter'd pass like current 
gold; 210 

And therefore fit to calmly put a close 

To this brief tempest. Do you stand pos- 
sess'd 

Of any proof against the honourableness 

Of Lady Auranthe, our new-spoused daugh- 
ter ? 
Albert. You chill me with astonishment. 
How 's this ? 



178 



TRAGEDIES 



ACT III 



My liege, what proof should I have 'gainst 

a fame 
Impossible of slur ? 

[Otho rises. 
Erminia. O wickedness ! 

Ethelbert. Deluded monarch, 't is a cruel 
lie. 218 

Oiho. Peace, rebel-priest ! 
Conrad. Insult beyond credence ! 

Erminia. Almost a dream ! 
Ludolph. We have awaked from ! 

A foolish dream that from my brow hath 

wrung 
A wrathful dew. O folly !- why did I 
So act the lion with this silly gnat ? 
Let them depart. Lady Erminia ! 
I ever grieved for you, as who did not ? 
But now you have, with such a brazen 

front, 
So most maliciously, so madly striven 
To dazzle the soft moon, when tenderest 

clouds 
Should be unloop'd around to curtain her; 
I leave you to the desert of the world 230 
Almost with pleasure. Let them be set 

free 
For me ! I take no personal revenge 
More than against a nightmare, which a 

man 
Forgets in the new dawn. [^Exit Ludolph. 
Olho. Still in extremes ! No, they must 

not be loose. 
Ethelbert. Albert, I must suspect thee of 
a crime 
So fiendish — 

Otho. Fear'st thou not my fury, monk ? 
Conrad, be they in your safe custody 
Till we determine some fit punishment. 240 
It is so mad a deed, I must reflect 
And question them in private; for per- 
haps. 
By patient scrutiny, we may discover 
Whether they merit death, or should be 

placed 
In care of tlie physicians. 

[^Exeunt Otho and Nobles, Albebt 
following. 



Conrad. My guards, ho ! 
Erminia. Albert, wilt thou follow there ? 
Wilt thou creep dastardly behind his back, 
Aud shrink away from a weak woman's 

eye? 
Turn, thou court - Janus ! thou forgett'st 

thyself; 
Here is the duke, waiting with open 
arms, 

Enter Guards. 
To thank thee; here congratulate each 
other; 250 

Wring hands; embrace; and swear how 

lucky 't was 
That I, by happy chance, hit the right 

man 
Of all the world to trust in. 

Albert. Trust ! to me ! 

Conrad (aside). He is the sole one in this 

mystery. 
Erminia. Well, I give up, and save my 
prayers for Heaven ! 
You, who could do this deed, would ne'er 

relent. 
Though, at my words, the hollow prison- 
vaults 
Would groan for pity. 

Conrad. Manacle them both ! 

Ethelbert. I know it — it must be — I 
see it all ! 259 

Albert, thou art the minion ! 

Erminia. Ah ! too plain — 

Conrad. Silence ! Gag up their mouths ! 
I cannot bear 
More of this brawling. That the Emperor 
Had placed you in some other custody ! 
Bring them away. 

^Exeunt all but Albert. 
Albert. Though my name perish from 
the book of honour. 
Almost before the recent ink is dry. 
And be no more remeraber'd after death, 
Than any drummer's in the muster-roll; 
Yet shall I season high my sudden fall 269 
With triumph o'er that evil-witted duke ! 
He shall feel what it is to have the hand 
Of a man drowning, on his hateful throat. 



SCENE 1 



OTHO THE GREAT 



179 



Enter Gersa and Sigifked. 
Gersa. What discord is at ferment in 

this house ? 
Sigifred. We are without conjecture; not 
a soul 
We met could answer any certainty. 

Gersa. Young Ludolph, like a fiery ar- 
row, shot 
By us. 

Sigifred. The Emperor, with cross'd 

arms, in thought. 
Gersa. In one room music, in another 
sadness. 
Perplexity every where ! 

Albert. A trifle more ! 

Follow ; your presences will much avail 280 
To tune our jarred spirits. 1 '11 explain. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT IV 

Scene I. — Avranthe's Apariment 
AuRANTHE and Conrad discovered. 

Conrad. Well, well, I know what ugly 

jeopardy 
We are caged in ; you need not pester that 
Into my ears. Pr'ythee, let me be spared 
A foolish tongue, that I may bethink me 
Of remedies with some deliberation. 
You cannot doubt but 't is in Albert's 

power 
To crush or save us ? 

Auranthe. No, I cannot doubt. 

He has, assure yourself, by some strange 

means, 
My secret; which I ever hid from him, 9 
Knowing his mawkish honesty. 

Conrad. Cursed slave ! 

Auranthe. Ay, I could almost curse him 

now myself. 
Wretched impediment ! Evil genius ! 
A glue upon my wings, that cannot spread. 
When they should span the provinces ! A 

snake, 
A scorpion, sprawling on the first gold 

step, 
Conducting to the throne, high canopied. 



Conrad. You would not hear my counsel, 
when his life 

Might have been trodden out, all sure and 
hush'd; 

Now the dull animal forsooth must be 

Intreated, managed ! When can you con- 
trive 20 

The interview he demands ? 

Auranthe. As speedily 

It must be done as my bribed woman can 

Unseen conduct him to me; but I fear 

'T will be impossible, while the broad day 

Comes through the panes with persecuting 
glare. 

Methinks, if 't now were night I could in- 
trigue 

With darkness, bring the stars to second me, 

And settle all this trouble. 

Conrad. Nonsense ! Child ! 

See him immediately; why not now? 
Auranthe. Do you forget that even the 
senseless door-posts 30 

Are on the watch and gape through all the 
house ? 

How many whisperers there are about. 

Hungry for evidence to ruin me: 

Men I have spurn'd, and women I have 
taunted ? 

Besides, the foolish prince sends, minute 
whiles. 

His pages — so they tell me — to inquire 

After my health, intreating, if I please, 

To see me. 

Conrad. Well, suppose this Albert here; 

What is your power with him ? 

Auranthe. He should be 

My echo, my taught parrot ! but I fear 40 

He will be cur enough to bark at me; 

Have his own say; read me some silly creed 

'Bout shame and pity. 

Conrad. What will you do then ? 

Auranthe. What I shall do, I know not; 
what I would 

Cannot be done; for see, this chamber- 
floor 

Will not yield to the pick-axe and the 
spade, — 

Here is no quiet depth of hollow ground. 



i8o 



TRAGEDIES 



ACT IV 



Conrad. Sister, you have grown sensible 
and wise, 
Seconding, ere I speak it, what is now, 49 
I hope, resolved between us. 

Auranthe. Say, virhat is 't ? 

Conrad. You need not be his sexton too; 
a man 
May carry that with him shall make him 

die 
Elsewhere, — give that to him; pretend 

the while 
You will to-morrow succumb to his wishes. 
Be what they may, and send him from the 

Castle 
On some fool's errand: let his latest groan 
Frighten the wolves ! 

Auranthe. Alas ! he must not die ! 

Conrad. Would you were both hearsed 
up in stifling lead ! 
Detested — 

Auranthe. Conrad, hold ! I would not 
bear 59 

The little thunder of your fretful tongue, 
Tho' I alone were taken in these toils. 
And you could free me; but remember, 

sir, 
You live alone in my security: 
So keep your wits at work, for your own 

sake, 
Not mine, and be more mannerly. 

Conrad. Thou wasp ! 

If my domains were emptied of these folk, 
And I had thee to starve — 

Auranthe. O, marvellous ! 

But Conrad, now be gone; the Host is 

look'd for; 
Cringe to the Emperor, entertain the Lords, 
And, do ye mind, above all things, pro- 
claim 70 
My sickness, with a brother's sadden'd eye. 
Condoling with Prince Ludolph. In fit 

time 
Return to me. 

Conrad. I leave you to your thoughts. 

lExit. 
Auranthe {sold). Down, down, proud 
temper ! down, Auranthe'r pride ! 
Why do I anger him when I should kneel ? 



Conrad ! Albert ! help ! help ! What can 
I do? 

wretched woman ! lost, wreck'd, swal- 

low'd up, 
Accursed, blasted ! O, thou golden Crown, 
Orbing along the serene firmament 79 

Of a wide empire, like a glowing moon; 
And thou, bright sceptre ! lustrous in my 

eyes, — 
There — as the fabled fair Hesperian tree. 
Bearing a fruit more precious ! graceful 

thing, 
Delicate, godlike, magic ! must I leave 
Thee to melt in the visionary air, 
Ere, by one grasp, this common hand is 

made 
Imperial ? I do not know the time 
When I have wept for sorrow; but me- 

thinks 88 

1 could now sit upon the ground, and shed 
Tears, tears of misery ! O, the heavy day ! 
How shall 1 bear my life till Albert comes ? 
Ludolph ! Erminia ! Proofs ! O heavy 

day ! 
Bring me some mourning weeds, that I 

may 'tire 
Myself, as tits one wailing her own death: 
Cut off these curls, and brand this lily 

hand. 
And throw these jewels from my loathing 

sight, — 
Fetch me a missal, and a string of beads, — 
A cup of bitter'd water, and a crust, — 
I will confess, O holy Abbot ! — How ! 99 
What is this ? Auranthe ! thou fool, dolt, 
Whimpering idiot ! up ! up ! and quell ! 
I am safe ! Coward ! why am I in fear? 
Albert ! he cannot stickle, chew the cud 
In such a fine extreme, — impossible ! 
Who knocks ? 

\_Goes to the door, listens, and opens it. 

Enter Albert. 
Albert, I have been waiting for you here 
With such an aching heart, such swooning 

throbs 
On my poor brain, such cruel — cruel sor- 
row. 



SCENE I 



OTHO THE GREAT 



i8i 



That I should claim your pity ! Art not 

well ? 109 

Albert. Yes, lady, well. 

Aurantke. You look not so, alas ! 

But pale, as if you brought some heavy 

news. 

Albert. You know full well what makes 

me look so pale. 
Aurantke. No ! Do I ? Surely I am 
still to learn 
Some horror; all I know, this present, is 
I am near hustled to a dangerous gulf, 
Which you can save me from, — and there- 
fore safe. 
So trusting in thy love; that should not 

make 
Thee pale, my Albert. 

Albert. It doth make me freeze. 

Aurantke. Why should it, love ? 
Albert. You should not ask me that, 

But make your own heart monitor, and save 
Me the great pain of telling. You must 
know. 121 

Aurantke. Something has vext you, Al- 
bert. There are times 
When simplest things put on a sombre 

cast; 
A melancholy mood will haunt a man. 
Until most easy matters take the shape 
Of unachievable tasks; small rivulets 
Then seem impassable. 

Albert. Do not cheat yourself 

With hope that gloss of words, or suppliant 

action, 
Or tears, or ravings, or self-threaten'd 
death, 129 

Can alter my resolve. 

Aurantke. You make me tremble; 

Not so much at your threats, as at your 

voice, 
Untuned, and harsh, and barren of all love. 
Albert. You suffocate me ! Stop this 
devil's parley. 
And listen to me; know me once for all. 
Aurantke. I thought I did. Alas ! I 

am deceived. 
Albert. No, yon are not deceived. You 
took me for 



A man detesting all inhuman crime; 

And therefore kept from me your demon's 

plot 
Against Erminia. Silent? Be so still; 
For ever ! Speak no more; but hear my 
words, 14c 

Thy fate. Your safety I have bought to- 
day 
By blazoning a lie, which in the dawn 
I '11 expiate with truth. 

Aurantke. O cruel traitor ! 

Albert. For I would not set eyes upon 
thy shame; 
I would not see thee dragg'd to death by 

the hair. 
Penanced, and taunted on a scaffolding ! 
To-night, upon the skirts of the blind wood 
That blackens northward of these horrid 

towers, 
I wait for you with horses. Choose your 
fate. 149 

Farewell ! 

Aurantke. Albert, you jest; I'm sure 
you must. 
You, an ambitious Soldier ! I, a Queen, 
One who could say, — here, rule these Pro- 
vinces ! 
Take tribute from those cities for thyself ! 
Empty these armouries, these treasuries. 
Muster thy warlike thousands at a nod ! 
Go ! Conquer Italy ! 

Albert. Auranthe, you have made 

The whole world chaff to me. Your doom 
is fix'd. 
Aurantke. Out, villain ! dastard ! 
Albert. Look there to the door ! 

Who is it ? 

Aurantke. Conrad, traitor ! 

Albert. Let him in. 

Enter Conrad. 
Do not affect amazement, hypocrite, 160 
At seeing me in this chamber. 

Conrad. Auranthe ? 

Albert. Talk not with eyes, but speak 
your curses out 
Against me, who would sooner crush and 
grind 



l82 



TRAGEDIES 



ACT IV 



A brace of toads, than league with them 

t' oppress 
An innoceiit lady, gull an Emperor, 
More generous to me than autumn sun 
To ripening harvests. 

A uranthe. No more insult, sir ! 

Albert. Ay, clutch your scabbard; but, 
for prudence sake. 
Draw not the sword; 't would make an up- 
roar, Duke, 
You would not hear the end of. At night- 
fall 170 
Your lady sister, if I guess aright, 
Will leave this busy castle. You had best 
Take farewell too of worldly vanities. 
Conrad. Vassal ! 

Albert. To-morrow, when the Emperor 
sends 
For loving Conrad, see you fawn on him. 
Good even ! 

A uranthe. You '11 be seen ! 
Albert. See the coast clear then. 

Auranthe (as he goes). Remorseless Al- 
bert ! Cruel, cruel wretch ! 

[^She lets him out. 
Conrad. So, we must lick the dust ? 
Auranthe. I follow him. 

Conrad. How ? Where ? The plan of 

your escape ? 
Auranthe. He waits 

For me with horses by the forest-side, 180 
Northward. 

Conrad. Good, good ! he dies. You go, 

say you ? 
Auranthe. Perforce. 

Conrad. Be speedy, darkness! Till that 
comes, 
Fiends keep you company ! \_Exit. 

Auranthe. And you ! And you ! 
And all men ! Vanish ! 

\_Retires to an inner apartment. 

Scene II. — A?i Apart?nent in the Castle 

Enter Ludolph and a Page. 
Page. Still very sick, my lord; but now 
I went. 
Knowing my duty to so good a Prince ; 



And there her women, in a mournful throng. 
Stood in the passage whispering; if any 
Moved, 't was with careful steps, and hush'd 

as death: 
They bade me stop. 

Ludolph. Good fellow, once again 

Make soft inquiry; pr'ythee, be not stay'd 
By any hindrance, but with gentlest force 
Break through her weeping servants, till 

thou com'st 
E'en to her chamber door, and there, fair 

boy — 10 

If with thy mother's milk thou hast suck'd 

in 
Any divine eloquence — woo her ears 
With plaints for me, more tender than the 

voice 
Of dying Echo, echoed. 

Page. Kindest master ! 

To know thee sad thus, will unloose my 

tongue 
In mournful syllables. Let but my words 

reach 
Her ears, and she shall take them coupled 

with 
Moans from my heart, and sighs not coun- 
terfeit. 
May I speed better ! [Exit Page. 

Ludolph (solus). Auranthe ! My Life ! 
Long have I loved thee, yet till now not 

loved: 20 

Remembering, as I do, hard-hearted times 
When I had heard e'en of thy death per- 
haps, 
And thoughtless, sufPer'd thee to pass alone 
Into Elysium ! — now I follow thee 
A substance or a shadow, wheresoe'er 
Thou leadest me, — whether thy white feet 

press. 
With pleasant weight, the amorous-aching 

earth, 
Or thro' the air thou pioneerest me, 
A shade ! Yet sadly I predestinate ! 
O unbenignest Love, why wilt thou let 30 
Darkness steal out upon the sleepy world 
So wearily ; as if night's chariot-wheels 
Were clogg'd in some thick cloud ? O, 

changeful Love, 



SCENE II 



OTHO THE GREAT 



183 



Let not her steeds with drowsy-footed pace 

Pass the high stars, before sweet embas- 
sage 

Comes from the pillow'd beauty of that 
fair 

Completion of all delicate Nature's wit ! 

Pout her faint lips anew with rubious 
health; 

And, with thine infant fingers, lift the 
fringe 

Of her sick eyelids; that those eyes may 
glow 40 

With wooing light upon me, ere the Morn 

Peers with disrelish, gray, barren, and 
cold ! 

Enter Gersa and Courtiers. 

Otho calls me his Lion — should I blush 
To be so tamed ? so — 
J Gersa. Do me the courtesy, 

■ Gentlemen, to pass on. 

1st Knight. We are your servants. 

[^Exeunt Courtiers. 
Ludolph. It seems then, Sir, you have 
found out the man 
You would confer with; — me ? 

Gersa. If I break not 

Too much upon your thoughtful mood, I 

will 
Claim a brief while your patience. 

Ludolph. For what cause 

Soe'er, I shall be honour'd. 

Gersa. I not less. 

Ludolph. What may it be ? No trifle 

(can take place 51 

Of such deliberate prologue, serious 'hav- 

iour. 
But, be it what it may, I caimot fail 
) To listen with no common interest; 
r For though so new your presence is to 
me, 
I have a soldier's friendship for your fame. 
Please you explain. 

Gersa. As thus: — for, pardon me, 

I cannot in plain terms grossly assault 
A noble nature; and would faintly sketch 
What your quick apprehension will fill up; 
So finely I esteem you. 



Ludolph. I attend. 61 

Gersa. Your generous father, most illus- 
trious Otlio, 
Sits in the banquet-room among his chiefs; 
His wine is bitter, for you are not there; 
His eyes are fix'd still on the open doors, 
And ev'ry passer in he frowns upon, 
Seeing no Ludolph comes. 

Ludolph. I do neglect — 

Gersa. And for your absence may I guess 

the cause ? 
Ludolph. Stay there ! No — guess ? 
More princely you must be 69 

Than to make guesses at me. 'T is enough. 
I 'm sorry I can hear no more. 

Gersa. And I 

As grieved to force it on you so abrupt; 
Yet, one day, you must know a grief, whose 

sting 
Will sharpen more the longer 't is con- 
ceal'd. 
Ludolph. Say it at once, sir ! dead — 

dead — is she dead ? 
Gersa. Mine is a cruel task: she is not 
dead, 
And would, for your sake, she were inno- 
cent — 
Ludolph. Thou liest ! Thou amazest me 
beyond 
All scope of thought, convulsest my heart's 

blood 79 

To deadly churning ! Gersa, yon are young, 
As I am; let me observe you, face to face: 
Not gray-brow'd like the poisonous Ethel- 

bert. 
No rheumed eyes, no furrowing of age. 
No wrinkles, where all vices nestle in 
Like crannied vermin — no ! but fresh and 

young. 
And hopeful featured. Ha ! by Heaven 

you weep 
Tears, human tears ! Do you repent you 

then 
Of a cursed torturer's office ? Why shouldst 

join — 
Tell me, the league of devils ? Confess — 

confess — 
The Lie ! 



i84 



TRAGEDIES 



ACT V 



Gersa. Lie ! — but begoue all ceremo- 
nious points 9° 

Of honour battailous ! I could not turn 

My wrath against thee for the orbed world. 
Ludolph. Your wrath, weak boy ? Trem- 
ble at mine, unless 

Retraction follow close upon the heels 

Of that late stouuding insult ! Why has 
my sword 

Not done already a sheer judgment on 
thee ? 

Despair, or eat thy words ! Why, thou 
wast nigh 

Whimpering away my reason ! Hark ye, 
Sir, 

It is no secret, that Erminia, 

Erniinia, Sir, was hidden in your tent; loo 

O bless'd asylum ! Comfortable home ! 

Begone ! I pity thee; thou art a gull, 

Erminia's last new puppet ! 

Gersa. Furious fire ! 

Thou mak'st me boil as hot as thou canst 
flame ! 

And in thy teeth I give thee back the lie ! 

Thou liest ! Thou, Auranthe's fool ! A 
wittol — 
Ludolph. Look ! look at this bright 
sword : 

There is no part of it, to the very hilt. 

But shall indulge itself about thine heart ! 

Draw ! but remember thou must cower tiiy 
plumes, no 

As yesterday the Arab made thee stoop — 
Gersa. Patience ! Not here; I would 
not spill thy blood 

Here, underneath this roof where Otho 
breathes, — 

Thy father, — almost mine. 

Ludolph. O faltering coward ! 

Re-enter Page. 

Stay, stay ; here is one I have half a word 

with. 
Well — What ails thee, child ? 

Page. My lord ! 

Ludolph. Good fellow ! 

Page. They are fled ! 

Ludolph. They ! Who ? 



Page. When anxiously 

I hasten'd back, your grieving messenger, 
I fouud the stairs all dark, the lamps ex- 
tinct. 
And not a foot or whisper to be heard. 120 
I thouglit her dead, and on the lowest step 
Sat listening; when presently came by 
Two muffled up, — one sighing heavily, 
The other cursing low, whose voice I knew 
For the Duke Conrad's. Close I foUow'd 

them 
Thro' the dark ways they chose to the open 

air; 
And, as I follow'd, heard my lady speak. 
Ludolph. Thy life answers the truth ! 
Page. The chamber 's empty ! 

Ludolph. As I will be of mercy ! So, at 
last, 129 

This nail is in my temples ! 

Gersa. Be calm in this. 

Ludolph. I am. 

Gersa. And Albert too has disappear'd; 
Ere I met you, I sought him every where; 
You would not hearken. 

Ludolph. Which way went they, boy ? 
Gersa. I '11 hunt with you. 
Ludolph. No, no, no. My senses are 
Still whole. I have survived. My arm is 

strong — 
My appetite sharp — for revenge ! I '11 no 

sharer 
In my feast; my injury is all my own. 
And so is my revenge, my lawful chat- 
tels ! 
Terrier, ferret them out ! Burn — burn 

the witch ! 
Trace me their footsteps ! Away ! 140 

[^Exeunt. 

ACT V 

Scene I . — A part of the Forest 

Enter Conrad and Auranthe, 

Auranthe. Go no further; not a step 
more. Thou art 
A master-plague in the midst of miseries. 
Go, — I fear thee ! I tremble every limb,^ 



SCENE II 



OTHO THE GREAT 



185 



Who never shook before. There 's mood}' 

death 
In thy resolved looks ! Yes, I could kneel 
To pray thee far away ! Courad, go ! 

go! — 
There ! yonder underneath the boughs I see 
Our horses ! 

Conrad. Ay, and the man. 
A uranthe. Yes, he is there. 

Go, go, — no blood ! no blood ! — go, gen- 
tle Conrad ! 
Conrad. Farewell ! 

A uranthe. Farewell ! For this Heaven 
pardon you ! 10 

[^Exit AURANTHE. 
Conrad. If he survive one hour, then 
may I die 
In unimagined tortures, or breathe through 
A long life in the foulest sink o' the world ! 
He dies ! 'T is well she do not advertise 
The caitiff of the cold steel at his back. 

[^Exit Conrad. 

Enter Ludolph and Page. 

Ludolph. Miss'd the way, boy ? Say not 

that on your peril ! 
Page. Indeed, indeed I cannot trace 

them further. 
Ludolph. Must I stop here ? Here soli- 
tary die ? 

Stifled beneath the thick oppressive shade 

Of these dull boughs, — this oven of dark 
thickets, — 20 

Silent, — without revenge ? — pshaw ! — 
bitter end, — 

A bitter death, — a suffocating death, — 

A gnawing — silent — deadly, quiet death ! 

Escaped ? — fled ? — vanish'd ? melted into 
air? 

She 's gone ! I cannot clutch her ! no re- 
venge ! 

A muffled death, ensnared in horrid silence ! 

Suck'd to my grave amid a dreamy calm ! 

O, where is that illustrious noise of war. 

To smother up this sound of labouring 
breath, 29 

This rustle of the trees ! 

[AcRANTHE shrieks at a distance. 



Page. My lord, a noise ! 

This way — hark ! 

Ludolph. Yes, yes ! A hope ! A music ! 
A glorious clamour ! How I live again ! 

[^Exeunt. 

Scene II. — Another part of the Forest 

Enter Albert (wounded). 

Albert. O ! for enough life to support me 
on 
To Otho's feet ! 

*^"-~..^n<er Ludolph. 

Ludolph. Thrice villanous, stay there ! 
Tell me where that detested woman is, 
Or this is through thee ! 

Albert. My good Prince, with me 

The sword has done its worst; not without 

worst 
Done to another, — Conrad has it home — 
I see you know it all — 

Ludolph. Where is his sister ? 

Enter Auranthe. 

Auranthe. Albert ! 

Ludolph. Ha ! There ! there ! — He is 
the paramour ! — 
There — hug him — dying ! O, thou inno- 
cence, 
Shrine him and comfort him at bis last 
gasp, 10 

Kiss down his eyelids ! Was he not thy 

love? 
Wilt thou forsake him at his latest hour ? 
Keep fearful and aloof from his last gaze. 
His most uneasy moments, when cold death 
Stands with the door ajar to let him in ? 
Albert. O that that door with hollow slam 
would close 
Upon me sudden, for I cannot meet. 
In all the unknown chambers of the dead, 
Such horrors — 

Ludolph. Auranthe ! what can he mean ? 
What horrors ? Is it not a joyous time ? 
Am I not married to a paragon 21 

' Of personal beauty and untainted soul ? ' 
A blushing fair-eyed purity ? A sylph, 



i86 



TRAGEDIES 



ACT V 



Whose snowy timid hand has never siiin'd 

Beyond a flower pluck'd, white as itself ? 

Albert, you do insult my bride — your mis- 
tress — 

To talk of horrors on our wedding-night ! 
Albert. Alas ! poor Prince, I would you 
knew my heart ! 
^ 'T is not so guilty — 

Ludolph. Hear, he pleads not guilty ! 

You are not ? or, if so, what matters it ? 

You have escaped me, free as the dusk 
air, 3 1 

Hid in the forest, safe from my revenge; 

I cannot catch you ! You should laugh at 
me, 

Poor cheated Ludolph ! Make the forest 
hiss 

With jeers at me ! You tremble; faint at 
once, 

You will come to again. O cockatrice, 

I have you ! Whither wander those fair 
eyes 

To entice the Devil to your help, that he 

May change you to a spider, so to crawl 

Into some cranny to escape my wrath ? 40 
Albert. Sometimes the counsel of a dy- 
ing man 

Doth operate quietly when his breath is 
gone: 

Disjoin those hands — part — part — do 
not destroy 

Each other — forget her ! — Our miseries 

Are equal shared, and mercy is — 

Ludolph. A boon 

When one can compass it. Auranthe, try 

Your oratory; your breath is not so hitch'd. 

Ay, stare for help ! 

[Albert groans and dies. 
There goes a spotted soul 

Howling in vain along the hollow night ! 

Hear him ! He calls you — sweet Auran- 
the, come ! 50 
Auranthe. Kill me ! 

Ludolph. No ! What, upon our mar- 
riage-night ! 

The earth would shudder at so foul a deed ! 

A fair bride ! A sweet bride ! An inno- 
cent bride ! 



No ! we must revel it, as 't is in use 
In times of delicate brilliant ceremony: 
Come, let me lead you to our halls again ! 
Nay, linger not ; make no resistance, 

sweet; — 
Will you ? Ah, wretch, thou canst not, for 

I have 
The strength of twenty lions 'gainst a 

lamb ! 
Now — one adieu for Albert ! — Come 



away 



60 
\^Exeunt. 



Scene III. — An inner Court of the 
Castle 

Enter Sigifred, Gonfred, and Theodore, 

meeting. 

\st Knight. Was ever such a night ? 

Sigifred. What horrors more ? 

Things unbelieved one hour, so strange 

they are. 
The next hour stamps with credit. 

l.s< Knight. Your last news ? 

Gonfred. After the Page's story of the 
death 
Of Albert and Duke Conrad ? 

Sigifred. And the return 

Of Ludolph with the Princess. 

Gonfred. No more, save 

Prince Gersa's freeing Abbot Ethelbert, 
And the sweet lady, fair Erminia, 
From prison. 

\st Knight. Where are they now ? Hast 
yet heard ? 

Gonfred. With the sad Emperor they 
are closeted; 10 

I saw the three pass slowly up the stairs, 
The lady weeping, the old Abbot cowl'd. 

Sigifred. What next ? 

\st Knight. I ache to think on 't. 

Gonfred. 'T is with fate. 

1st Knight. One while these proud towers 
are hush'd as death. 

Gonfred. The next our poor Prince fills 
the arched rooms 
With ghastly ravings. 

Sigifred. I do fear his brain. 



SCENE IV 



OTHO THE GREAT 



187 



Gonfred. I will see more. Bear you so 
stout a heart ? 

\_Exeunt into the Castle. 

Scene IV. — A Cabinet, opening towards 
a terrace 

Otho, Erminia, Ethelbert, and a Phy- 
sician, discovered. 

Otho. O, my poor boy ! My son ! My 
sou ! My Liidolph ! 
Have ye no comfort for me, ye physicians 
Of the weak body aud soul ? 

Ethelbert. 'T is not in medicine, 

Either of heaven or earth, to cure, unless 
Fit time be chosen to administer. 

Otho. A kind forbearance, holy Abbot. 
Come, 
Erminia; here, sit by me, gentle girl; 
Give me thy hand; hast thou forgiven me ? 
Erminia. Would I were with the saiuts 

to pray for you ! 
Otho. Why will ye keep me from my 
darling child ? 10 

Physician. Forgive me, but he must not 

see thy face. 
Otho. Is then a father's countenance a 
Gorgon ? 
Hath it not comfort in it ? Would it not 
Cousole my poor boy, cheer him, help his 

spirits ? 
Let me embrace him; let me speak to him; 
I will ! Who hinders me ? Who 's Em- 
peror ? 
Physician. You may not, Sire; 'twould 
overwhelm him quite. 
He is so full of grief aud passionate wrath; 
Too heavy a sigh would kill him, or do 

worse. 
He must be saved by fine contrivances; 20 
And, most especially, we must keep clear 
Out of his siglit a father whom he loves; 
His heart is full, it can contain no more, 
And do its ruddy office. 

Ethelbert. Sage advice; 

We must endeavour how to ease and slacken 
The tight-wound energies of his despair, 
Not make them tenser. 



Otho. Enough ! I hear, I hear; 

Yet you were about to advise more, — I 
listen. 
Ethelbert. This learned doctor will agree 
with me. 
That not in the smallest point should he be 
thwarted, 30 

Or gainsaid by one word; his very mo- 
tions, 
Nods, becks, and hints, should be obey'd 

with care, 
Even on the moment; so his troubled mind 
May cure itself. 

Physician. There are no other means. 
Otho. Open the door; let 's hear if all is 

quiet. 
Physician. Beseech you, Sire, forbear. 
Erminia. Do, do. 

Otho. I command ! 

Open it straight; — hush ! — quiet ! — my 

lost boy ! 
My miserable child ! 

Ludolph (indistinctly loithout). Fill, fill 

my goblet, — here 's a health ! 
Erminia. O, close the door ! 

Otho. Let, let me hear his voice; this 
cannot last: 39 

And fain would I catch up his dying words, 
Though my own knell they be ! This can- 
not last ! 
O let me catch his voice — for lo ! I hear 
This silence whisper me that he is dead ! 
It is so ! Gersa ? 

Enter Gersa. 
Physician. Say, how fares the prince ? 
Gersa. More calm; his features are less 
wild and flush'd; 
Once he complain'd of weariness. 

Physician. Indeed ! 

'T is good, — 'tis good; let him but fall 

asleep. 
That saves him. 

Otho. Gersa, watch him like a child; 

Ward him from harm, — and bring me 

better news ! 

Physician. Humour him to the height. 

I fear to go; 50 



i8S 



TRAGEDIES 



ACT V 



For should he catch a glimpse of my dull 

garb, 
It might affright him, fill him with suspi- 
cion 
That we believe him sick, which must not 

be. 
Gersa. I will invent what soothing means 

I can. 

lExit Gersa. 
Physician. This should cheer up your 

Highness; weariness 
Is a good symptom, and most favourable; 
It gives me pleasant hopes. Please you, 

walk forth 
Upon the terrace ; the refreshing air 
Will blow one half of your sad doubts 

away. [Exeunt. 

Scene V. — A Banqueting Hall, bril- 
liantly illuminated, and set forth with 
all costly fnagitijicence, with supper- 
tables laden with services of gold and 
silver. A door in the back scene, guarded 
by two Soldiers. Lords, Ladies, Knights, 
Gentlejnen, etc., whispering sadly, and 
ranging themselves j part entering and 
part discovered. 

\st Knight. Grievously are we tantalized, 
one and all; 
Sway'd here and there, commanded to and 

fro. 
As though we were the shadows of a sleep. 
And link'd to a dreaming fancy. What do 
we here ? 
Gonfred. I am no seer; you know we 
must obey 
The prince from A to Z, though it should 

be 
To set the place in flames. I pray, hast 

heard 
Where the most wicked Princess is ? 

1st Knight. There, sir, 

In the next room ; have you remark'd those 
two 9 

Stout soldiers posted at the door ? 

Gonfred. For what ? 

[They whisper. 
1st Lady. How ghast a train ! 



2d Lady. Sure this should be some splen- 
did burial. 

1st Lady. What fearful whispering ! See, 
see, — Gersa there ! 

Enter Gersa. 
Gersa. Put on your brightest looks; 
smile if you can; 

Behave as all were happy; keep your eyes 

From the least watch upon him; if he 
speaks 

To any one, answer collectedly, 

Without surprise, his questions, howe'er 
strange. 

Do this to the utmost — though, alas ! with 
me 

The remedy grows hopeless ! Here he 
comes, — 20 

Observe what I have said — show no sur- 
prise. 

Enter Ludolph, followed by Sigifred and 
Page. 
Ludolph. A splendid company ! rare 

beauties here ! 
I should have Orphean lips, and Plato's 

fancy, 
Amphion's utterance, toned with his lyre. 
Or the deep key of Jove's sonorous mouth. 
To give fit salutation. Methought I heard. 
As I came in, some whispers — what of 

that? 
'Tis natural men should whisper; at the 

kiss 
Of Psyche given by Love, there was a 

buzz 
Among the gods ! — and silence is as natu- 
ral. 30 
These draperies are fine, and, being a 

mortal, 
I should desire no better; yet, in truth. 
There must be some superior costliness, 
Some wider-domed high magnificence ! 
I would have, as a mortal I may not, 
Hangings of heaven's clouds, purple and 

gold, 
Slung from the spheres; gauzes of silver 

mist, 



SCENE V 



OTHO THE GREAT 



189 



Loop'd up with cords of twisted wreathed 

light, 
And tassel'd round with weeping meteors ! 
These pendent lamps and chandeliers are 

bright 40 

As earthly fires from dull dross can be 

cleansed ; 
Yet could my eyes drink up intenser beams 
Undazzled — this is darkness — when I 

close 
These lids, I see far fiercer brilliances, — 
Skies full of splendid moons, and shooting 

stars, 
And spouting exhalations, diamond fires, 
And panting fountains quivering with deep 

glows ! 
Yes — this is dark — is it not dark ? 

Sigifred. My Lord, 

'T is late; the lights of festival are ever 49 
Quench'd in the morn. 

Ludolph. 'T is not to-morrow then ? 

Sigifred. 'Tis early dawn. 
Gersa. Indeed full time we slept; 

Say you so. Prince ? 

Ludolph. I say I quarrel'd with you; 

We did not tilt each other — that 's a 

blessing, — 
Good gods ! no innocent blood upon my 

head ! 
Sigifred. Retire, Gersa ! 
Ludolph. There should be three more 

here: 
For two of them, they stay away perhaps, 
Being gloomy-minded, haters of fair rev- 
els, — 
They know their own thoughts best. 

As for the third. 
Deep blue eyes, semi-shaded in white lids, 
Fiuish'd with lashes fine for more soft 

shade, 60 

Completed by her twin-arch'd ebon-brows; 
White temples, of exactest elegance. 
Of even mould, felicitous and smooth; 
Cheeks fashion'd tenderly on either side. 
So perfect, so divine, that our poor eyes 
Are dazzled with the sweet proportioning. 
And wonder that 't is so — the magic 

chance ! 



Her nostrils, small, fragrant, fairy-delicate; 
Her lips — I swear no human bones e'er 

wore 
So taking a disguise; — you shall behold 

her ! 70 

W^e '11 have her presently ; ay, you shall see 

her. 
And wonder at her, friends, she is so fair; 
She is the world's chief jewel, and, by 

heaven, 
She 's mine by right of marriage ! — she is 

mine ! 
Patience, good people, in fit time I send 
A summoner, — she will obey my call, 
Being a wife most mild and dutiful. 
First I would hear what music is prepared 
To herald and receive her; let me hear ! 
Sigifred. Bid the musicians soothe him 

tenderly. 80 

\_A soft strain of Music. 

Ludolph. Ye have none better ? No, I 

am content; 
'T is a rich sobbing melody, with reliefs 
Full and majestic; it is well enough, 
And will be sweeter, when yon see her pace 
Sweeping into this presence, glistened o'er 
With emptied caskets, and her train upheld 
By ladies, habited in robes of lawn. 
Sprinkled with golden crescents, others 

bright 
In silks, with spangles shower'd, and bow'd 

to S9 

By Duchesses and pearled Margravines ! 
Sad, that the fairest creature of the earth — 
I pray you mind me not — 't is sad, I say, 
That the extremest beauty of the world 
Should so entrench herself away from me, 
Behind a barrier of engender'd guilt ! 
2d Lady. Ah ! what a moan ! 
\st Knight. Most piteous indeed ! 

Ludolph. She shall be brought before this 

company. 
And then — then — 
\st Lady. He muses. 
Gersa. O, Fortune, where will this 

end? 
Sigifred. I guess his purpose ! Indeed 

he must not have 



1 9© 



TRAGEDIES 



ACT V 



That pestilence brought in, — that cannot 
be, loo 

There we must stop him. 

Gersa. I am lost ! Hush, hush ! 

He is about to rave again. 

Ludolph. A barrier of guilt ! I was the 
fool, 
She was the cheater ! Who 's the cheater 

now, 
And who the fool ? The entrapp'd, the 

caged fool. 
The bird-limed raven ? She shall croak to 

death 
Secure ! Methinks I have her in my fist, 
To crush her with my heel ! Wait, wait ! 

I marvel 
My father keeps away. Good friend — ah ! 

Sigifred ! 
Do bring him to me, — and Erminia no 
I fain would see before I sleep — and Eth- 

elbert, 
That he may bless me, as I know he will. 
Though I have cursed him. 

Sigifred. Rather suffer me 

To lead you to them. 

Ludolph. No, excuse me, — no ! 

The day is not quite done. Go, bring them 

hither. [Exit Sigifrkd. 

Certes, a father's smile should, like sun 

light. 
Slant on my sheafed harvest of ripe bliss. 
Besides, I thirst to pledge my lovely bride 
In a deep goblet: let me see — what wine ? 
The strong Iberian juice, or mellow Greek ? 
Or pale Calabrian ? Or the Tuscan grape ? 
Or of old ^Etna's pulpy wine-presses, 122 
Black staln'd with the fat vintage, as it 

were 
The purple slaughter-house, where Bac- 
chus' self 
Prick'd his own swollen veins ? Where is 
my page ? 
Page. Here, here ! 

Ludolph. Be ready to obey me; anon 
thou shalt 
Bear a soft message for me ; for the hour 
Draws near when I must make a winding 
up 



Of bridal mysteries — a fine-spun ven- 
geance ! 

Carve it on my tomb, that, when I rest 
beneath, 130 

Men shall confess this Prince was guU'd 
and cheated, 

But from the ashes of disgrace he rose 

More than a fiery phoenix, and did burn 

His ignominy up in purging fires ! 

Did I not send, Sir, but a moment past, 

For my Father ? 

Gersa. You did. 

Ludolph. Perhaps 't would be 

Much better he came not. 

Gersa. ■ He enters now ! 

Enter Otho, Erminia, Ethelbert, Sigi- 
fred, and Physician. 

Ludolph. O thou good man, against whose 

sacred head 
I was a mad conspirator, chiefly too, 139 
For the sake of my fair newly wedded wife. 
Now to be punish'd, do not look so sad ! 
Those charitable eyes will thaw my heart, 
Those tears will wash away a just resolve, 
A verdict ten times sworn ! Awake — 

awake — 
Put on a judge's brow, and use a tongue 
Made iron-stern by habit ! Thou shalt see 
A deed to be applauded, 'scribed in gold ! 
Join a loud voice to mine, and so denounce 
What I alone will execute 

Otho. Dear son, 

What is it ? By your father's love, I sue 
That it be nothing merciless ! 

I^udolph. To that demon ? 

Not so ! No ! She is in temple-stall 152 
Being garnish'd for the sacrifice, and I, 
The Priest of Justice, will immolate her 
Upon the altar of wrath ! She stings me 

through ! — 
Even as the worm doth feed upon the nut. 
So she, a scorpion, preys upon my brain ! 
I feel her gnawing here ! Let her but 

vanish. 
Then, father, I will lead your legions forth, 
Compact in steeled squares, and speared 

files, 160 



SCENE V 



OTHO THE GREAT 



191 



And bid our trumpets speak a fell rebuke 
To nations drows'd in peace ! 

Otho. To-morrow, son, 

Be your word law; forget to-day — 

Ludolph. I will 

When I have finish'd it ! Now, — now, 

I 'm pight, 
Tight-footed for the deed ! 

Erminia. Alas ! Alas ! 

Ludolph. What angel's voice is that ? 
Erminia ! 
Ah ! gentlest creature, whose sweet inno- 
cence 
Was almost murder'd; I am penitent; 
Wilt thou forgive me ? And thou, holy 

man, 
Good Ethelbert, shall I die in peace with 
you ? 170 

Erminia. Die, my lord ! 
Ludolph. I feel it possible. 

Otho. Physician ? 

Physician. I fear me he is past my skill. 
Otho. Not so ! 

Ludolph. I see it — I see it — I have 
been wandering ! 
Half mad — not right here — I forget my 

purpose. 
Bestir — bestir — Auranthe ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
Youngster ! Page ! go bid them drag her 

to me ! 
Obey ! This shall finish it ! 

{^Draws a dagger. 
Othu. Oh, my son ! my son ! 



Sigifred. This must not be — stop there ! 

Ludolph. Am I obey'd ? 

A little talk with her — no harm — haste ! 

haste ! \_Exit Page. 

Set her before me — never fear I can strike. 

Several Voices. My Lord ! My Lord ! 

Gersa. Good Prince ! 

Ludolph. Why do ye trouble me ? out 
— out — away ! 182 

There she is ! take that ! and that ! no, no — 
That 's not well done. — Where is she ? 

The doors open. Enter Page. Several wo- 
men are seen grouped about Auranthe in 
the inner-room. 

Page. Alas ! My Lord, my Lord ! they 
cannot move her ! 
Her arms are stiff, — her fingers clench'd 
and cold ! 
Ludolph. She 's dead ! 

\_Staggers and falls into their arms. 
Ethelbert. Take away the dagger. 
Gersa. Softly; so ! 

Otho. Thank God for that ! 
Sigifred. It could not harm him now. 
Gersa. No ! — brief be his anguish ! 
Ludolph. She 's gone ! I am content — 
Nobles, good night ! 190 

We are all weary — faint — set ope the 

doors — 
I will to bed ! — To-morrow — 

[Dies. 
The Curtain falls. 



KING STEPHEN 



A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT 



Lord Houg^hton, when reprinting this piece 
in the Aldine edition of 187tj, appends the fol- 
lowing- note from the MSS. of Charles Armi- 
tag-e Brown : ' As soon as Keats had finished 
Oiho the Great I pointed out to him a subject 
for an English historical tragedy in the reign 
of Stephen, beginning with his defeat by the 
Empress Maud and ending with the death of 
his son Eustace. He was struck with the vari- 



ety of events and characters which must neces- 
sarily be introduced, and I offered to give, as 
before, their dramatic conduct. " Tlie play must 
open," I began. " with the field of battle, when 
Stephen's forces are retreating." — " Stop," 
he cried, "I have been too long in leading 
strings ; I will do all this myself." He imme- 
diately set about it, and wrote two or three 
scenes.' 



ACT I 

Scene I . — Field of Battle 

Alarum. Enter King Stephen, Knights, 
and Soldiers. 

Stephen. If shame can on a soldier's vein- 

swoU'u front 
Spread deeper crimson than the battle's 

toil, 
Blush in your casing helmets ! for see, see ! 
Yonder my chivalry, my pride of war, 
Wrench'd with an iron hand from firm 

array. 
Are routed loose about the plashy meads. 
Of honour forfeit. O, that my known 

voice 
Could reach your dastard ears, and fright 

you more ! 
Fly, cowards, fly ! Glocester is at your 

backs ! 
Throw your slack bridles o'er the flurried 

manes. 
Ply well the rowell with faint trembling 

heels, lo 

Scampering to death at last ! 

1st Knight. The enemy 

Bears his flaunt standard close upon their 



2d Knight. Sure of a bloody prey, seeing 
the fens 
Will swamp them girth-deep. 

Stephen. Over head and ears. 

No matter ! 'Tis a gallant enemy; 
How like a comet he goes streaming on. 
But we must plague him in the flank, — 

hey, friends ? 
We are well breathed, — follow ! 

Enter Earl Baldwin and Soldiers, as 

defeated. 
Stephen. De Redvers ! 

What is the monstrous bugbear that can 
fright 20 

Baldwin ? 

Baldwin. No scare-crow, but the fortu- 
nate star 
Of boisterous Chester, whose fell truncheon 

now 
Points level to the goal of victory. 
This way he comes, and if you would main- 
tain 
Your person unaffronted by vile odds, 
Take horse, my Lord. 

Stephen. And which way spur for life ? 
Now I thank Heaven I am in the toils, 
That soldiers may bear witness how my 
arm 



192 



SCENE II 



KING STEPHEN 



193 



Can burst the meshes. Not the eagle more 
Loves to beat up against a tyrannous blast, 
Than I to meet the torrent of my foes. 31 
This is a brag, — be 't so, — but if 1 fall, 
Carve it upon my 'scutcheon'd sepulchre. 
On, fellow soldiers ! Earl of Redvers, 

back ! 
Not twenty Earls of Chester shall brow- 
beat 
The diadem. [Exeunt. Alarum. 

Scene II. — A7iother pa7-t of the Field 

Trumpets sounding a Victory. Enter 
Glocester, Knights, and Forces. 

Glocester. Now may we lift our bruised 
visors up. 
And take the flattering freshness of the 

air, 
While the wide din of battle dies away 
Into times past, yet to be echoed sure 
In the silent pages of our chroniclers. 
1st Knight. ' Will Stephen's death be 
mark'd there, my good Lord, 
Or that we gave him lodging in yon towers ? 
Glocester. Fain would I know the great 
usurper's fate. 

Enter two Captains severally. 
\st Captain. My Lord ! 
2d Captain. Most noble Earl ! 

\st Captain. The King — 
2d Captain. The Empress greets — 

Glocester. What of the King? 
1st Captain. He sole and lone maintains 
A hopeless bustle 'mid our swarming arms. 
And with a nimble savageness attacks, 13 
Escapes, makes fiercer onset, then anew 
Eludes death, giving death to most that 

dare 
Trespass within the circuit of his sword ! 
He must by this have fallen. Baldwin is 

taken ; 
And for the Duke of Bretagne, like a stag 
He flies, for the Welsh beagles to hunt 

down. 
God save the Empress ! 



Glocester. Now our dreaded Queen: 

What message from her Highness ? 

2d Captain. Royal Maud 

From the throng'd towers of Lhicoln hath 

look'd down, 22 

Like Pallas from the walls of Ilion, 
And seen her enemies havock'd at her feet. 
She greets most noble Glocester from her 

heart, 
Entreating him, his captains, and brave 

knights. 
To grace a banquet. The high city gates 
Are envious which shall see your triumph 

pass; 
The streets are full of music. 

Enter 2d Knight. 

Glocester. Whence come you ? 

2d Knight. From Stephen, my good 
Prince, — Stephen ! Stephen ! 30 
Glocester. Why do you make such echo- 
ing of his name ? 
2d Knight. Because I think, my lord, he 
is no man, 
But a fierce demon, 'nointed safe from 

wounds, 
And misbaptized with a Christian name. 
Glocester. A mighty soldier ! — Does he 

still hold out ? 
2c? Knight. He shames our victory. His 
valour still 
Keeps elbow-room amid our eager swords, 
And holds our bladed falchions all aloof — 
His gleaming battle-axe being slaughter- 
sick. 
Smote on the morion of a Flemish knight. 
Broke short in his hand; upon the which 
he flung 41 

The heft away with such a vengeful force, 
It paunch'd the Earl of Chester's horse, 

who tlien 
Spleen-hearted came in full career at him. 
Glocester. Did no one take him at a van- 
tage then ? 
2d Knight. Three then with tiger leap 
upon him flew, 
Whom, with his sword swift-drawn and 
nimbly held, 



194 



TRAGEDIES 



ACT 1 



He stung away agaiu, and stood to breathe, 
Smiling. Anon upon him rush'd once more 
A throng of foes, and in this reuew'd strife, 
My sword»met his and snapp'd off at the 
hilt. 51 

Glocester. Come, lead me to this man — 
and let us move 
In silence, not insulting his sad doom 
With clamorous trumpets. To the Em- 
press bear 
My salutation as befits the time. 

\_Exeunt Glocester and Forces. 

Scene III. — The Field of Battle 
Enter Stephen unarmed. 

Stephen. Another sword ! And what if 

I could seize 
One from Bellona's gleaming armoury, 
Or choose the fairest of her sheafed spears ! 
Where are my enemies ? Here, close at 

hand, 
Here come the testy brood. O, for a 

sword ! 
I 'm faint — a biting sword ! A noble 

sword ! 
A hedge-stake — or a ponderous stone to 

hurl 
With brawny vengeance, like the labourer 

Cain. 
Come on ! Farewell my kingdom, and all 

hail 
Thou superb, plumed, and helmeted re- 
nown, lO 
All hail — I would not truck this brilliant 

day 
To rule in Pylos with a Nestor's beard — 
Come on ! 

Enter De Kaims and Knights, etc. 
De Kaims. Is 't madness or a hunger 
after death 
That makes thee thus unarm 'd throw 

taunts at us ? — 
Yield, Stephen, or my sword's point dips in 
The gloomy current of a traitor's heart. 
Stephen. Do it, De Kaims, I will not 
budge an inch. 



De Kaims. Yes, of thy madness thou 

shalt take the meed. 
Stephen. Darest thou ? 
De Kaims. How dare, against a man dis- 

arm'd ? 
Stephen. What weapons has the lion but 
himself ? 20 

Come not near me, De Kaims, for by the 

price 
Of all the glory I have won this day, 
Being a king, I will not yield alive 
To any but the second man of the realm, 
Robert of Glocester. 

De Kaims. Thou shalt vail to me. 

Stephen. Shall I, when I have sworn 
against it, sir ? 
Thou think'st it brave to take a breathing 

king, 
That, on a court-day bow'd to haughty 

Maud, 
The awed presence-chamber may be bold 
To whisper, there 's the man who took 
alive ■ 30 

Stephen — me — prisoner. Certes, De 

Kaims, 
The ambition is a noble one. 

De Kaims. 'T is true. 

And, Stephen, I must compass it. 

Stephen. No, no, 

Do not tempt me to throttle you on the 

gorge. 
Or with my gauntlet crush your hollow 

breast, 
Just when your knighthood is grown ripe 

and full 
For lordship. 

A Soldier. Is an honest yeoman's spear 
Of no use at a need ? Take that. 

Stephen. Ah, dastard ! 

De Kaims. What, you are vulnerable ! 

my prisoner ! 
Stephen. No, not yet. I disclaim it, and 
demand 4° 

Death as a sovereign right unto a king 
Who 'sdains to yield to any but his peer. 
If not in title, yet in noble deeds, 
The Earl of Glocester. Stab to the hilt, 
De Kaims, 



SCENE IV 



KING STEPHEN 



'95 



For I will never by mean hands be led 
From this so famous field. Do you hear ! 

Be quick ! 
Trumpets. Enter the Earl o/" Chester and 
Knights. 

Scene IV. — A Presence CJuunber. Queen 
Maud in a Chair of State, the Earls 
of Glocester a7id Chester, Lords, 
Attendants 

Maud. Glocester, no more : I will behold 
that Boulogne: 
Set him before me. Not for the poor sake 
Of regal pomp and a vain-glorious hour, 
As thou with wary speech, yet near enough. 
Hast hinted. 

'Glocester. Faithful counsel have I given; 
If wary, for your Highness' benefit. 

Maud. Tlie Heavens forbid that I should 
not think so, 
For by thy valour have I won this realm, 
Which by thy wisdom I will ever keep. 
To sage advisers let me ever bend lo 

A meek attentive ear, so that they treat 
Of the wide kingdom's rule and govern- 
ment. 
Not trenching on our actions personal. 
Advised, not school'd, I would be; and 

henceforth 
Spoken to in clear, plain, and open terms. 
Not side-ways sermon'd at. 

Glocester. Then in plain terms, 

Once more for the fallen king — 

Maud. Your pardon. Brother, 

I would no more of that; for, as I said, 
'T is not for worldly pomp I wish to see 
The rebel, but as dooming judge to give 20 
A sentence something worthy of his guilt. 
Glocester. If 't must be so, I '11 bring him 
to your presence. 

[^Exit Glocester. 
Maud. A meaner summoner might do as 
well — 
My Lord of Chester, is 't true what I 

hear 
Of Stephen of Boulogne, our prisoner. 
That he, as a fit penance for his crimes. 



Eats wholesome, sweet, and palatable food 
Off Glocester's golden dishes — drinks pure 

wine. 
Lodges soft ? 

Chester. More than that, my gracious 

Queen, 
Has anger'd me. The noble Earl, me- 

thinks, 30 

Full soldier as he is, and without peey 
In counsel, dreams too much among his 

books. 
It may read well, but sure 't is out of date 
To play the Alexander with Darius. 

Maud. Truth ! I think so. By Heavens 

it shall not last ! 
Chester. It would amaze your Highness 

now to mark 
How Glocester overstrains his courtesy 
To that crime-loving rebel, that Boulogne — 
Maud. That ingrate ! 
Chester. For whose vast ingratitude 

To our late sovereign lord, your noble sire, 
The generous Earl condoles in his mishaps, 
And with a sort of lackeying friendliness. 
Talks off the mighty frowning from his 

brow, 43 

Woos him to hold a duet in a smile, 
Or, if it please him, play an hour at chess — 
Maud. A perjured slave ! 
Chester. And for his perjury, 

Glocester has fit rewards — nay, I believe. 
He sets his bustling household's wits at 

work 
For flatteries to ease this Stephen's hours, 
And make a heaven of his purgatory; 50 
Adorning bondage with the pleasant gloss 
Of feasts and music, and all idle shows 
Of indoor pageantry; while syren whispers, 
Predestined for his ear, 'scape as half- 

check'd 
From lips the courtliest and the rubiest, 
Of all the realm, admiring of his deeds. 
Maud. A frost upon his summer ! 
Chester. A queen's nod 

Can make his June December. Here he 



THE EVE OF ST. MARK 



A FRAGMENT 



In a letter to George and Georgiana Keats, 
dated February 14, 1819, Keats says that he 
means to send them in the next packet ' The 
Pot of Basil,' ' St. Agnes' Eve,' and ' if I 
should have finished it a little thing called " The 
Eve of St. Mark." ' He does not refer to the 
poem again directly, until writing from Win- 
chester to the same, September 20, when he 
says : ' The great beauty of poetry is that it 
makes everything in every place interesting. 
The palatine Vienna and the abbotine Win- 
chester are equally interesting. Some time 
since I began a poem called " The Eve of St. 
Mark,'' quite in the spirit of town quietude. 
I think I will give you the sensation of walk- 
ing about an old country town in a coolish even- 
ing. I know not whether I shall ever finish it. 
I will give it as far as I have gone.' The 
poem appears never to have been finished, and 
was published in this fragmentary form in Life. 
Letters and Literary Remains. 

Mr. Formau gives an interesting extract from 



a letter written him by Mr. Rossetti, which 
throws a possible light on the origin of the 
poem. He had been reading Keats"s letters to 
Fanny Brawne, and writes : ' I should think it 
very conceivable — nay, I will say to myself 
highly probable and almost certain, — that the 
" Poem which I have in my head " referred to 
by Keats at page 106 was none other than the 
fragmentary " Eve of St. Mark." By the light 
of the extract, . . . I judge that the heroine — 
remorseful after trifling with a sick and now 
absent lover — might make her way to the 
minster-porch to learn his fate by the spell, 
and perhaps see his figure enter but not re- 
turn.' The extract from Keats's letter is as 
follows : ' If my health would bear it, I could 
write a Poem which I have in my head, which 
would be a consolation for people in such a 
situation as mine. I would show some one in 
Love as I am, with a person living in such 
Liberty as you do.' 



Upon a Sabbath-day it fell; 
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell, 
That call'd the folk to evening prayer; 
The city streets were clean and fair 
From wholesome drench of April rains; 
And, on the western window panes, 
The chilly sunset faintly told 
Of unmatured green valle3's cold, 
Of the green thorny bloomless hedge. 
Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge, i 
Of primroses by shelter'd rills, 
And daisies on the aguish hills. 
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell: 
The silent streets were crowded well 
With staid and pious companies, 
Warm from their fireside orat'ries; 
And moving, with demurest air, 
To even-song, and vesper prayer. 



196 



Each arched porch, and entry low, 
Was fill'd with patient folk and slow, 20 
With whispers hush, and shuffling feet, 
While play'd the organ loud and sweet. 

The bells had ceased, the prayers begun, 
And Bertha had not yet half done 
A curious volume, patch'd and torn, 
That all day long, from earliest morn. 
Had taken captive her two eyes, 
Among its golden broideries; 
Perplex'd her with a thousand things, — 
The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings, 30 
Martyrs in a fiery blaze, 
Azure saints and silver raj'S, 
Moses' breastplate, and the seven 
Candlesticks John saw in Heaven, 
The winged Lion of Saint Mark, 



THE EVE OF ST. MARK 



197 



And the Covenantal Ark, 
With its many mysteries, 
Cherubim and golden mice. 

Bertha was a maiden fair, 

Dwelling in th' old Minster-square; 40 

From her fireside she could see, 

Sidelong, its ricli antiquity. 

Far as the Bishop's garden-wall; 

Where sycamores and elm-trees tall, 

Full-leaved, the forest had outstript. 

By no sharp north-wind ever uipt, 

So shelter'd by the mighty pile. 

Bertha arose, and read awhile. 

With forehead 'gainst the window-pane. 

Again slie tried, and then again, 50 

Until the dusk eve left her dark 

Upon the legend of St. Mark. 

From plaited lawn-frill, fine and thin, 

She lifted up her soft warm chin, 

With aching neck and swimming eyes, 

And dazed with saintly imag'ries. 

All was gloom, and silent all. 

Save now and then the still foot-fall 

Of one returning homewards late, 

Past the echoing minster-gate. 60 

The clamorous daws, that all the day 

Above tree-tops and towers play. 

Pair by paif had gone to rest, 

Each iu its ancient belfry-uest, 

Where asleep they fall betimes. 

To music and the drowsy chimes. 

All was silent, all was gloom, 

Abroad and iu the homely room: 

Down she sat, poor cheated soul ! 

And struck a lamp from the dismal coal; 70 

Lean'd forward, with bright drooping hair 

And slant book, full against the glare. 

Her shadow, in uneasy guise, 

Hover'd about, a giant size. 

On ceiling-beam and old oak chair. 

The parrot's cage, and panel-square; 



And the warm angled winter-screen, 

On which were many monsters seen, 

Call'd doves of Siam, Lima mice. 

And legless birds of Paradise, 80 

Macaw, and tender Avadavat, 

And silken-furr'd Angora cat. 

Untired she read, her shadow still 

Glower'd about, as it would fill 

The room with wildest forms and shades, 

As though some ghostly queen of spades 

Had come to mock behind her back. 

And dance, and ruffle her garments black. 

Untired she read the legend page, 

Of holy Mark, from youth to age, 90 

On land, on sea, in pagan chains, 

Rejoicing for his many pains. 

Sometimes the learned eremite. 

With golden star, or dagger bright, 

Referr'd to pious poesies 

Written in smallest crow-quill size 

Beneath the text; and thus the rhyme 

Was parcell'd out from time to time: 

' Als writith he of swevenis. 

Men han beforne they wake in bliss, ico 

Whanne that hir friendes thinke him bound 

In crimped shroude farre under grounde; 

And how a litling child mote be 

A saint er its nativitie, 

(Jif that the modre (God her blesse !) 

Kepen in solitarinesse, 

And kissen devoute the holy croce. 

Of Goddes love, and Sathan's force, — 

He writith; and thinges many mo 

Of swiche thinges I may not show. no 

Bot I must tellen verilie 

Spmdel of Saints Cicilie, 

And chieflie what he auetorethe 

Of Saints Markis life and dethe: ' 

At length her constant eyelids come 
Upon the fervent martyrdom; 
Then lastly to his holy shrine, 
Exalt amid the tapers' shine 
At Venice, — 



HYPERION 



A FRAGMENT 



The first mention of Hyperion in Keats's 
letters occurs in that written on Christmas day, 
1818, to his brother and sister in America, in 
which he says : ' I think you knew before you 
left England that my next subject would be 
" the fall of Hyperion." I went on a little 
with it last night, but it will take some time to 
get into the vein again. I will not give you 
any extracts because I wish the whole to make 
an impression.' He speaks of it a week later 
as ' scarce begun.' Again, February 14, 1819, 
he writes to the same : ' I have not gone on 
with Hyperion — for to tell the truth I have 
not been in great cue for writing lately — I 
must wait for the spring to rouse me up a lit- 
tle.' In August he told Bailey that he had 
been writing parts of Hyperion, but it is quite 
plain that he did little continuous work on it, 
but was drawn off by his tales and tragedy. 
From Winchester, September 22, 1819, he 
writes to Reynolds : ' I have given up Hyperion 
— there were too many Miltonic inversions in 
it — Miltonic verse cannot be written but in an 
artful, or, rather, artist's humour. I wish to 
give myself up to other sensations. English 
ought to be kept up. It may be interesting to 
you to pick out some lines from Hyperion, and 
put a mark X to the false beauty proceeding 
from art, and one || to the true voice of feeling. 
Upon my soul 't was imagination — I cannot 
make the distinction — every now and then 
there is a Miltonic intonation — but I cannot 
make the division properly.' From the silence 
regarding the poem in his after letters, it would 
appear that he left it at this stage. 

That Keats designed a large epic in Hype- 
rion, which was to be in ten books, is plain, but 
it is also tolerably clear that he abandoned his 
purpose, for he did not actually forbid the 
publication of the fragment, though it is doubt- 
ful if the whole reason for his action is given 
in the Publishers' Advertisement to the 1820 
volume, containing the poem. ' If any apology 
be thought necessary,' it is there said, ' for the 



appearance of the unfinished poem of Hyperion, 
the publishers beg to state that they alone are 
responsible, as it was printed at their particular 
request, and contrary to the wish of the au- 
thor. The poem was intended to have been of 
equal length with Endymion, but the reception 
given to that work discouraged the author 
from proceeding.' 

Keats's friend Woodhouse, in his interleaved 
and annotated copy of Endymion, says of Hy- 
perion : ' The poem if completed would have 
treated of the dethronement of Hyperion, the 
former God of the Sun, by Apollo, — and inci- 
dentally of those of Oceanus by Neptune, of 
Saturn by Jupiter, etc., and of the war of the 
Giants for Saturn's reestablishment, with other 
events, of which we have but very dark hints in 
the mythological poets of Greece and Rome.' 

It is not impossible that besides the inertia 
produced by diminution of physical powers, an- 
other reason existed for Keats's failure to com- 
plete his poem. In the two full books which 
we have, he had stated so fully and explicitly 
the underlying thought in his interpretation of 
the myth that his interest in any delineation 
of a hopeless struggle might well have been 
unequal to the task. The speeches successively 
of Oceanus and Clymene which so enraged 
Enceladus were the masculine and feminine 
confessions that as their own supremacy over 
the antecedent chaos had been due to the law 
which made order expel disorder, so the suprem- 
acy of the new race of gods over them was 
due to the still further law 

'That first in beauty sliould be first in might.' 

Nay, more, the vision they have is not of a 

restoration of the old order, but of the defeat of 

the new by some still more distant evolution. 

' Another race may drive 

Our conquerors to mourn as we do now.' 

Of the relation of this poem to Hyperion, a 
Vision, see the Appendix, where the other frag- 
ment is printed. 



HYPERION 



199 



BOOK I 

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale 

Far sunken from the healthy breath of 

morn, 
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one 

star, 
Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone, 
Still as the silence round about his lair; 
Forest on forest hung about his head 
Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was 

there, 
Not so much life as on a summer's day 
Robs not one light seed from the feather'd 

grass. 
But where the dead leaf fell, there did it 

rest. 10 

A stream went voiceless by, still deadened 

more 
By reason of his fallen divinity 
Spreading a shade: the Naiad 'mid her 

reeds 
Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips. 

Along the margin-sand large foot-marks 

went, 
No further than to where his feet had 

stray'd. 
And slept there since. Upon the sodden 

ground 
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, 

dead, 
Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were 

closed ; 
While his bow'd head seem'd list'ning to 

the Earth, 20 

His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. 

It seem'd no force could wake him from 

his place; 
But there came one, who with a kindred 

hand 
Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending 

low 
With reverence, though to one who knew 

it not. 
She was a Goddess of the infant world; 
By her in stature the tall Amazon 



Had stood a pigmy's height: she would 

have ta'en 
Achilles by the hair and bent his neck; 
Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel. 30 
Her face was large as that of Memphian 

sphinx, 
Pedestal'd haply in a palace-court, 
When sages look'd to Egypt for their lore. 
But oh ! how unlike marble was that face; 
How beautiful, if sorrow had not made 
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self. 
There was a listening fear in her regard. 
As if calamity had but begun; 
As if the vanward clouds of evil days 39 
Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear 
Was with its stored thunder labouring up. 
One hand she press'd upon that aching 

spot 
Where beats the human heart, as if just 

there, 
Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain: 
The other upon Saturn's bended neck 
She laid, and to the level of his ear 
Leaning with parted lips, some words she 

spake 
In solemn teuour and deep organ tone: 
Some mourning words, which in our feeble 

tongue 
Would come in these like accents; O how 

frail 50 

To that large utterance of the early Gods ! 
* Saturn, look up ! — though wherefore, 

poor old King ? 
I have no comfort for thee, no not one: 
I cannot say, " O wherefore sleepest thou ? " 
For heaven is parted from thee, and the 

earth 
Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a God; 
And ocean too, with all its solemn noise. 
Has from thy sceptre pass'd; and all the 

air 
Is emptied of thine hoary majesty. 
Thy thunder, conscious of the new com- 
mand, 60 
Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house ; 
And thy sharp lightning in unpractised 

hands 
Scorches and burns our once serene domain. 



HYPERION 



O aching time ! O moments big as years ! 
All as ye pass swell out the monstrous 

truth, 
And press it so upon our weary griefs 
That unbelief has not a space to breathe. 
Saturn, sleep on: — O thoughtless, why 

did I 
Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude ? 
Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes ? 70 
Saturn, sleep on ! while at thy feet I 

weep.' 

As when, upon a tranced summer-night, 
Those green - robed senators of mighty 

woods, 
Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest 

stars. 
Dream, and so dream all night without a 

stir, 
Save from one gradual solitary gust 
Which comes upon the silence, and dies off, 
As if the ebbing air had but one wave: 
So came these words and went; the while 

in tears 
She touch'd her fair large forehead to the 
ground, 80 

Just where her falling hair might be out- 
spread 
A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet. 
One moon, with alteration slow, had shed 
Her silver seasons four upon the night. 
And still these two were postured motion- 
less, 
Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern; 
The frozen God still couchant on the earth. 
And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet: 
Until at length old Saturn lifted up 89 

His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom gone, 
And all tlie gloom and sorrow of the place. 
And that fair kneeling Goddess; and then 

spake, 
As with a palsied tongue, and while his 

beard 
Shook horrid with such aspen-malady: 
' O tender spouse of gold Hyperion, 
Thea, I feel thee ere I see thy face; 
Look up, and let me see our doom in it; 
Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape 



Is Saturn's; tell me, if thou hear'st the 

voice 
Of Saturn ; tell me, if this wrinkling brow, 
Naked and bare of its great diadem, loi 
Peers like the front of Saturn. Who had 

power 
To make me desolate ? whence came the 

strength ? 
How was it nurtured to such bursting forth. 
While Fate seeui'd strangled in my nervous 

grasp ? 
But it is so; and I am smother'd up, 
And buried from all godlike exercise 
Of influence benign on planets pale, 
Of admonitions to the winds and seas, 109 
Of peaceful sway above man's harvesting. 
And all those acts which Deity supreme 
Doth ease its heart of love in. — I am gone 
Away from my own bosom: I have left 
My strong identity, my real self, 
Somewhere between the throne, and where 

I sit 
Here on this spot of earth. Search, Thea, 

search ! 
Open thine eyes eterne, and sphere them 

round 
Upon all space: space starr'd, and lorn of 

light; 
Space region'd with life-air, and barren 

void; 
Spaces of fire, and all the yawn of hell. 120 
Search, Tliea, search ! and tell me if thou 

seest 
A certain shape or shadow, making way 
With wings or chariot fierce to repossess 
A heaven he lost ere while: it must — it 

must 
Be of ripe progress — Saturn must be King. 
Yes, there must be a golden victory; 
There must be Gods thrown down, and 

trumpets blown 
Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival 
Upon the gold clouds metropolitan, 
Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir 130 
Of strings in hollow shells; and there shall 

be 
Beautiful things made new, for the sur- 
prise , 



L _.. 



HYPERION 



Of the sky-children; I will give command: 
Thea ! Thea ! Thea ! where is Saturn ? ' 

This passion lifted him upon his feet, 
And made his hands to struggle in the air, 
His Druid locks to shake and ooze with 

sweat, 
His eyes to fever out, his voice to cease. 
He stood, and heard not Thea's sobbing 

deep; 139 

A little time, and then again he snatch'd 
Utterance thus: — ' But cannot I create ? 
Cannot I form ? Cannot I fashion forth 
Another world, another universe. 
To overbear and crumble this to nought ? 
Where is another chaos ? Where ? ' — That 

word 
Found way unto Olympus, and made quake 
The rebel three. — Thea was startled up. 
And in her bearing was a sort of hope. 
As thus she quick-voiced spake, yet full of 



'This cheers our fallen house: come to 
our friends, 150 

Saturn ! come away, and give them 

heart; 

1 know the covert, for thence came I 

hither.' 
Thus brief; then with beseeching eyes she 

went 
With backward footing through the shade 

a space: 
He follow'd, and she turn'd to lead the 

way 
Through aged boughs, that yielded like the 

mist 
Which eagles cleave upmounting from 

their nest. 

Meanwhile in other realms big tears 
were shed. 

More sorrow like to this, and such like 
woe, 

Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of 
scribe: 160 

The Titans fierce, self - hid, or prison- 
bound. 



Groan'd for the old allegiance once more. 
And listen'd in sharp pain for Saturn's 

voice. 
But one of the whole mammoth-brood still 

kept 
His sov'reignty, and rule, and majesty; 
Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire 
Still sat, still snuff'd the incense, teeming 

up 
From man to the sun's God; yet unsecure : 
For as among us mortals omens drear 
Fright and perplex, so also shudder'd he. 
Not at dog's howl, or gloom-bird's hated 
screech, 171 

Or the familiar visiting of one 
Upon the first toll of his passing-bell, 
Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp; 
But horrors, portion'd to a giant nerve. 
Oft made Hyperion ache. His palace 

bright 
Bastion'd with pyramids of glowing gold, 
And touch'd with shade of bronzed obe- 
lisks. 
Glared a blood-red through all its thousand 

courts, 
Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries; 180 
And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds 
Flush'd angerly: while sometimes eagles' 

wings, 
Unseen before by Gods or wondering men, 
Darken'd the place; and neighing steeds 

were heard, 
Not heard before by Gods or wondering 

men. 
Also, when he would taste the spicy 

wreaths 
Of incense, breathed aloft from sacred hills, 
Instead of sweets, his ample palate took 
Savour of poisonous brass and metal sick: 
And so, when harbour'd in the sleepy west, 
After tlie full completion of fair day, 191 
For rest divine upon exalted couch 
And slumber in the arms of melody. 
He paced away the pleasant hours of ease 
With stride colossal, on from hall to hall; 
While far within each aisle and deep re- 
cess. 
His winged minions in close clusters stood. 



HYPERION 



Amazed and full of fear; like anxious men 
Who on wide plains gather in panting 

troops, 
When earthquakes jar their battlements 

and towers. 200 

Even now, while Saturn, roused from icy 

trance. 
Went step for step with Thea through the 

woods, 
Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear, 
Came slope upon the threshold of the west; 
Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew ope 
In smoothest silence, save what solemn 

tubes, 
Blown by the serious Zephyrs, gave of 

sweet 
And wandering sounds, slow-breathed melo- 
dies; 
And like a rose in vermeil tint and shape, 
In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye, 2 10 
That inlet to severe magnificence 
Stood full blown, for the God to enter in. 

He enter'd, but he enter'd full of wrath ; 
His flaming robes stream'd out beyond his 

heels. 
And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire, 
That scared away the meek ethereal Hours 
And made their dove-wings tremble. On 

he flared. 
From stately nave to nave, from vault to 

vault, 
Through bowers of fragrant and enwreathed 

light. 
And diamond - paved lustrous long ar- 
cades, 220 
Until he reach'd the great main cupola; 
There standing fierce beiieath, he stampt 

his foot, 
And from the basements deep to the high 

towers 
Jarr'd his own golden region; and before 
The quavering thunder thereupon had 

ceased. 
His voice leapt out, despite of godlike 

curb. 
To this result: ' O dreams of day and 

night ! 



O monstrous forms ! O effigies of pain ! 
O spectres busy in a cold, cold gloom ! 

lank-ear'd Phantoms of black-weeded 

pools ! 230 

Why do I know ye ? why have I seen ye ? 

why 
Is my eternal essence thus distraught 
To see and to behold these horrors new ? 
Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall ? 
Am I to leave this haven of my rest, 
This cradle of my glory, this soft clime. 
This calm luxuriance of blissful light, 
These crystalline pavilions, and pure fanes, 
Of all my lucent empire ? It is left 
Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine. 240 
The blaze, the splendour, and the symme- 
try, 

1 cannot see — but darkness, death and 

darkness. 
Even here, into my centre of repose, 
The shady visions come to domineer. 
Insult, and blind, and stifle up my pomp. — 
Fall ! — No, by Tellns and her briny robes ! 
Over the fiery frontier of my realms 
I will advance a terrible right arm 
Shall scare that infant thunderer, rebel 

Jove, 
And bid old Saturn take his throne again.' 
He spake, and ceased, the while a heavier 

threat 251 

Held struggle with his throat, but came 

not forth; 
For as in theatres of crowded men 
Hubbub increases more they call out 

« Hush ! ' 
So at Hyperion's words the Phantoms pale 
Bestirr'd themselves, thrice horrible and 

cold; 
And from the mirror'd level where he stood 
A mist arose, as from a scummy marsh. 
At this, through all his bulk an agony 
Crept gradual, from the feet unto the 

crown, 260 

Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular 
Making slow way, with head and neck con- 
vulsed 
From ovei'-strained might. Released, he 

fled 



HYPERION 



203 



To the eastern gates, and full six dewy 

hours 
Before the dawn in season due should 

blush, 
He breathed fierce breath against the sleepy 

portals, 
Clear'd them of heavy vapours, burst them 

wide 
Suddenly on the ocean's chilly streams. 
The planet orb of fire, whereon he rode 
Each day from east to west the heavens 

through, 270 

Spun round in sable curtaining of clouds; 
Not therefore veiled quite, blindfold, and 

hid, 
But ever and anon the glancing spheres. 
Circles, and arcs, and broad-belting colure, 
Glow'd through, and wrought upon the 

muffling dark 
Sweet-shaped lightnings from the nadir 

deep 
Up to the zenith, — hieroglyphics old, 
Which sages and keen-eyed astrologers 
Then living on the earth, with labouring 

thought 
Won from the gaze of many centuries: 280 
Now lost, save what we find on remnants 

huge 
Of stone, or marble swart; their import 

gone, 
Their wisdom long since fled. — Two wings 

this orb 
Possess'd for glory, two fair argent wings, 
Ever exalted at the God's approach: 
And now, from forth the gloom their 

plumes immense 
Rose, one by one, till all outspreaded were; 
While still the dazzling globe maintaiu'd 

eclipse, 
Awaiting for Hyperion's command. 
Fain would he have commanded, fain took 

throne 2qo 

And bid the day begin, if but for change. 
He might not: — No, though a primeval 

God: 
The sacred seasons might not be disturb'd. 
Therefore the operations of the dawn 
Stay'd in their birth, even as here 't is told. 



Those silver wings expanded sisterly. 
Eager to sail their orb; the porches wide 
Open'd upon the dusk demesnes of night; 
And the bright Titan, phrenzied with new 

woes, 299 

Unused to bend, by hard compulsion bent 
His spirit to the sorrow of the time; 
And all along a dismal rack of clouds, 
Upon the boundaries of day and night, 
He stretch'd himself in grief and radiance 

faint. 
There as he lay, the Heaven with its stars 
Look'd down on him with pity, and the 

voice 
Of Coelus, from the universal space. 
Thus whisper'd low and solemn in his ear: 
' O brightest of my children dear, earth-born 
And sky-engendered. Son of Mysteries 310 
All unrevealed even to the powers 
Which met at thy creating; at whose joys 
And palpitations sweet, and pleasures soft, 
I, Ccelus, wonder, how they came and 

whence ; 
And at the fruits thereof what shapes they 

be. 
Distinct, and visible; symbols divine, 
Manifestations of that beauteous life 
Diffused unseen throughout eternal space: 
Of these new-form'd art thou, oh brightest 

child ! 
Of these, thy brethren and the God- 
desses ! 320 
There is sad feud among ye, and rebellion 
Of son against his sire. I saw him fall, 
I saw my first-born tumbled from his 

throne ! 
To me his arms were spread, to me his 

voice 
Found way from forth the thunders round 

his head ! 
Pale wox I, and in vapours hid my face. 
Art thou, too, near such doom ? vague fear 

there is: 
For I have seen my sons most unlike Gods. 
Divine ye were created, and divine 
In sad demeanour, solemn, undisturb'd, 330 
Unruffled, like high Gods, ye lived and 

ruled : 



204 



HYPERION 



Now I behold in you fear, hope, and 

wratli ; 
Actions of rage and passion ; even as 
I see them, on the mortal world beneath, 
In men who die. — This is the grief, O 

Son ! 
Sad sign of ruin, sudden dismay, and fall ! 
Yet do thou strive; as thou art capable, 
As thou canst move about, an evident 

God; 
And canst oppose to each malignant hour 
Ethereal presence: — I am but a voice; 340 
My life is but the life of winds and tides. 
No more than winds and tides can I 

avail: — 
But thou canst. — Be thou therefore in the 

van 
Of circumstance; yea, seize the arrow's 

barb 
Before the tense string murmur. — To the 

earth ! 
For there thou wilt find Saturn, and his 

woes. 
Meantime I will keep watch on thy bright 

sun. 
And of thy seasons be a careful nurse.' — 
Ere half this region-whisper had come 

down, 
Hyperion arose, and on the stars 350 

Lifted his curved- lids, and kept them wide 
Until it ceased; and still he kept them 

wide: 
And still they were the same bright, pa- 
tient stars. 
Then with a slow incline of his broad 

breast, 
Like to a diver in the pearly seas, 
Forward he stoop 'd over the airy shore. 
And plunged all noiseless into the deep 

night. 

BOOK II 

Just at the self-same beat of Time's wide 

wings 
Hyperion slid into the rustled air, 
And Saturn gain'd with Thea that sad 

place 



Where Cybele and the bruised Titans 

mourn'd. 
It was a den where no insulting light 
Could glimmer on their tears; where their 

own groans 
They felt, but heard not, for the solid roar 
Of thunderous waterfalls and torrents 

hoarse. 
Pouring a constant bulk, uncertain where. 
Crag jutting forth to crag, and rocks that 

seem'd 10 

Ever as if just rising from a sleep, 
Forehead to forehead held their monstrous 

horns; 
And thus in thousand hugest phantasies 
Made a fit roofing to this nest of vroe. 
Instead of thrones, hard flint they sat upon, 
Couches of rugged stone, and slaty ridge 
Stubborn'd with iron. All were not assem- 
bled: 
Some chain'd in torture, and some wander- 
ing. 
CcEus, and Gyges, and Briareiis, 
Typhon, and Dolor, and Porphyrion, 20 

With many more, the brawniest in assault. 
Were pent in regions of laborious breath; 
Dungeon'd in opaque element to keep 
Their clenched teeth still clench'd, and all 

their limbs 
Lock'd up like veins of metal, crampt and 

screw'd; 
Without a motion, save of their big hearts 
Heaving in pain, and horribly convulsed 
With sanguine, feverous, boiling gurge of 

pulse. 
Mnemosyne was straying in the world; 
Far from her moon had Phcebe wandered; 30 
And many else were free to roam abroad, 
But for the main, here found they covert 

drear. 
Scarce images of life, one here, one there. 
Lay vast and edgeways; like a dismal 

cirque 
Of Druid stones, upon a forlorn moor. 
When the chill rain begins at shut of eve. 
In dull November, and their chancel vault, 
The Heaven itself, is blinded throughout 

nijrht. 



HYPERION 



205 



Each oue kept shroud, nor to his neighbour 

gave 
Or word, or look, or action of despair. 40 
Creiis was one; his ponderous iiou luace 
Lay by him, aud a sliatter'd rib of rock 
Told of his rage, ere he thus sank and 

pined, 
lapetus another; in his grasp, 
A serpent's plashy neck; its barbed tongue 
Squeezed from the gorge, and all its un- 

curl'd length 
Dead; and because the creature could not 

spit 
Its poison in the eyes of conquering Jove. 
Next Cottus: prone he lay, chin uppermost, 
As though in pain: for still upon the flint 50 
He ground severe his skull, with open 

mouth 
And eyes at horrid working. Nearest him 
Asia, born of most enormous Caf, 
Who cost her mother Tellus keener pangs, 
Though feminine, than any of her sons: 
More thought than woe was in her dusky 

face. 
For she was prophesying of her glory; 
And in her wide imagination stood 
Palm-shaded temples, and high rival fanes, 
By Oxns or in Ganges' sacred isles. 60 

Even as Hope upon her anchor leans. 
So leant she, not so fair, upon a tusk 
Shed from the broadest of her elephants. 
Above her, on a crag's uneasy shelve. 
Upon his elbow raised, all prostrate else, 
Shadow'd Enceladus; once tame and mild 
As grazing ox un worried in the meads; 
Now tiger-passion'd, lion-thoughted, wroth, 
He meditated, plotted, and even now 
Was hurling mountains in that second 

war, 70 

Not long delay'd, that scared the younger 

Gods 
To hide themselves in forms of beast and 

bird. 
Not far hence Atlas; and beside him prone 
Phorcus, the sire of Gorgons. Neighbour'd 

close 
Oceanus, and Tethys, in whose lap 
Sobb'd Clymene among her tangled hair. 



In midst of all lay Themis, at the feet 
Of Ops the queen all clouded round from 

sight; 

No shape distinguishable, more than when 

Thick night coufouuds the pine-tops with 

the clouds: 80 

Aud many else whose names may not be 

told. 
For when the Muse's wings are air-ward 

spread, 
Who shall delay her flight? And she 

must chant 
Of Saturn, and his guide, who now had 

climb'd 
With damp and slippery footing from a 

depth 
More horrid still. Above a sombre cliff 
Their heads appear'd, and up their stature 

grew 
Till on the level height their steps found 

ease: 
Then Thea spread abroad her trembling 

arms 
Upon the precincts of this nest of pain, 90 
And sidelong fix'd her eye on Saturn's 

face: 
There saw she direst strife; the supreme 

God 
At war with all the frailty of grief. 
Of rage, of fear, anxiety, revenge, 
Remorse, spleen, hope, but most of all de- 
spair. 
Against these plagues he strove in vain: 

for Fate 
Had pour'd a mortal oil upon his head, 
A disanointing poison: so that Thea, 
Affrighted, kept her still, and let him pass 
First onwards in, among the fallen tribe. 100 

As with us mortal men, the laden heart 
Is persecuted more, and fever'd more. 
When it is nighing to the mournful house 
Where other hearts are sick of the same 

bruise ; 
So Saturn, as lie walk'd into the midst, 
Felt faint, aud would have sunk among the 

rest, 
But that he met Enceladus's eye, 



2o6 



HYPERION 



Whose mightiuess, and awe of him, at 
once 

Came like an inspiration; and he shouted, 

' Titans, behold your God ! ' at which some 
groau'd; "o 

Some started on their feet; some also 
shouted ; 

Some wept, some wail'd — all bow'd with 
reverence; 

And Ops, uplifting her black folded veil, 

Show'd her pale cheeks, and all her fore- 
head wan. 

Her eyebrows thin and jet, and hollow 
eyes. 

There is a roaring in the bleak-grown 
pines 

When Winter lifts his voice; there is a 
noise 

Among immortals when a God gives sign. 

With hushing finger, how he means to 
load 

His tongue with the full weight of utter- 
less thought, I20 

With thunder, and with music, and with 
pomp: 

Such noise is like the roar of bleak-grown 
pines; 

Which, when it ceases in this mountain'd 
world, 

No other sound succeeds; but ceasing here. 

Among these fallen, Saturn's voice there- 
from 

Grew up like organ, that begins anew 

Its strain, when other harmonies, stopt 
short, 

Leave the dinn'd air vibrating silverly. 

Thus grew it up: — ' Not in my own sad 
breast. 

Which is its own great judge and searcher 
out, 130 

Gan I find reason why ye should be thus: 

Not in the legends of the first of days. 

Studied from that old spirit-leaved book 

Which starry Uranus with finger bright 

Saved from the shores of darkness, when 
the waves 

Low-ebb'd still hid it up in shallow 
gloom ; — 



And the which book ye know I ever kept 
For my firm-based footstool : — Ah, in- 
firm ! 
Not there, nor in sign, symbol, or portent 
Of element, earth, water, air, and fire, — 
At war, at peace, or inter-quarrelling 141 
One against one, or two, or three, or all 
Each several one against the other three, 
As fire with air loud warring when rain- 
floods 
Drown both, and press them both against 

earth's face, 
Where, finding sulphur, a quadruple wrath 
Unhinges the poor world ; — not in that 

strife, 
Wherefrom I take strange lore, and read 

it deep, 
Can I find reason why ye should be thus: 
No, nowhere can unriddle, though I search. 
And pore on Nature's universal scroll 151 
Even to swooning, why ye. Divinities, 
The first-born of all shaped and palpable 

Gods, 
Should cower beneath what, in comparison. 
Is untremendous might. Yet ye are here, 
O'erwhelm'd, and spurn'd, and batter'd, ye 

are here ! 
O Titans, shall I say "Arise!"— Ye 

groan: 
Shall I say " Crouch ! " — Ye groan. 

What can I then ? 
O Heaven wide ! O unseen parent dear ! 
What can I? Tell me, all ye brethren 
Gods, 160 

How we can war, how engine our great 
wrath ! 

speak your counsel now, for Saturn's ear 
Is all a-hunger'd. Thou, Oceanus, 
Ponderest high and deep; and in thy face 

1 see, astonied, that severe content 
Which comes of thought and musing: give 

us help ! ' 

So ended Saturn; and the God of the 
Sea, 
Sophist and sage, from no Athenian grove, 
But cogitation in his watery shades. 
Arose, with locks not oozy, and began, 170 



HYPERION 



207 



In murmurs, which his first-endeavouring 
tongue 
aught iufaut-ltke from the far-foamed 
sands, 
ye, whom wrath consumes ! who, pas- 
sion-stung, 
Writhe at defeat, and nurse your agonies ! 
Shut up your senses, stifle up your eai's, 
My voice is not a bellows uuto ire. 
Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring 

proof 
How ye, perforce, must be content to stoop; 
And in the proof much comfort will I give. 
If ye will take that comfort in its truth. 180 
We fall by course of Nature's law, not 

force 
Of thunder, or of Jove. Great Saturn, thou 
Hast sifted well the atom-universe; 
But for this reason, that thou art the King, 
And only blind from sheer supremacy. 
One avenue was shaded from thine e^'es, 
Through which I wander'd to eternal truth. 
And first, as thou wast not the first of pow- 
ers, 
So art thou not the last; it cannot be; 
Thou art not the beginning nor the end. 190 
From chaos and parental darkness came 
Light, the first fruits of that intestine 

broil. 
That sullen ferment, which for wondrous 

ends 
Was ripening in itself. The ripe hour 

came, 
And with it light, and light engendering 
Upon its own producer, forthwith touch'd 
The whole enormous matter into life. 
Upon that very hour, our parentage, 
The Heavens and the Earth, were manifest: 
Then thou first-born, and we the giant- 
race, 200 
Found ourselves ruling new and beauteous 

realms. 
Now comes the pain of truth, to whom 't is 

pain; 
O folly ! for to bear all naked truths, 
And to envisage circumstance, all calm. 
That is the top of sovereignty. Mark 
well ! 



As Heaven and Earth are fairer, fairer far 
Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though 

once chiefs; 
And as we show beyond that Heaven and 

Earth 
In form and shape compact and beautiful, 
In will, in action free, companionship, 210 
And thousand other signs of purer life; 
So on our heels a fresh perfection treads, 
A power more strong in beauty, born of us 
And fated to excel us, as we pass 
In glory that old Darkness: nor are we 
Thereby more conquer' d, than by us the 

rule 
Of shapeless Chaos. Say, doth the dull 

soil 
Quarrel with the proud forests it hath fed, 
And feedeth still, more comely than itself ? 
Can it deny the chiefdom of green groves ? 
Or shall the tree be envious of the dove 221 
Because it cooeth, and bath snowy wings 
To wander wherewithal and find its joys ? 
We are such forest-trees, and our fair 

boughs 
Have bred forth, not pale solitary doves, 
But eagles goldeu-feather'd, who do tower 
Above us in their beauty, and must reign 
In right thereof; for 't is the eternal law 
That first in beauty should be first in 

might: 229 

Yea, by that law, another race may drive 
Our conquerors to mourn as we do now. 
Have ye beheld the young God of the Seas, 
My dispossessor ? Have ye seen his face ? 
Have ye beheld his chariot, foam'd along 
By noble winged creatures he hath made ? 
I saw him on the calmed waters scud, 
With such a glow of beauty in his eyes, 
That it enforced me to bid sad farewell 
To all my empire; farewell sad I took, 
And hither came, to see how dolorous fate 
Had wrought upon ye; and how I might 

best 241 

Give consolation in this woe extreme. 
Receive the truth, and let it be your balm.' 

Whether through poz'd conviction, or 
disdain, 



208 



HYPERION 



They guarded silence, when Oceanus 
Left nmrmuiiug, what deepest thought can 

tell? 
But so it was, none answer'd for a space, 
Save one whoui none regarded, Clymene: 
And yet she answer'd not, only complain'd, 
With hectic lips, and eyes up -looking 

mild, 250 

Thus wording timidly among the fierce: 
' O Father, I am here the simplest voice. 
And all my knowledge is that joy is gone. 
And this thing woe crept in among our 

hearts. 
There to remain forever, as I fear: 
I would not bode of evil, if I thought 
So weak a creature could turn off tlie help 
Which by just right should come of mighty 

Gods; 
Yet let me tell my sorrow, let me tell 
Of wh;>t I heard, and how it made me 

weep, 260 

And know that we had parted from all 

hope. 
I stood upon a shore, a pleasant shore, 
Where a sweet clime was breathed from a 

laud 
Of fragrance, quietness, and trees, and 

flowers. 
Full of calm joy it was, as I of grief; 
Too full of joy and soft delicious warmth; 
So that I felt a movement in my heart 
To chide, and to reproach that solitude 
With songs of misery, music of our woes; 
And sat me down, and took a mouthed 

shell 270 

And miirmur'd into it, and made melody — 

melody no more ! for wliile I sang, 
And with poor skill let pass into the breeze 
The dull shell's echo, from a bowery strand 
Just opposite, an island of the sea, 

There came enchantment with the shifting 

wind, 
That did both drown and keep alive my 

ears. 

1 threw my shell away upon the sand, 
And a wave fill'd it, as my sense was fill'd 
With that new blissful golden melody. 280 
A living death was in each gush of sounds. 



Each family of rapturous hurried notes, 
That fell, one after one, yet all at once. 
Like pearl beads dropping sudden from 

their string: 
And then another, then another strain. 
Each like a dove leaving its olive perch. 
With music wing'd instead of silent plumes, 
To hover round my head, and make me 

sick 
Of joy and grief at once. Grief overcame, 
And I was stopping up my frantic ears, 290 
When, past all hindrance of my trembling 

hands, 
A voice came sweeter, sweeter than all 

tune. 
And still it cried, " Apollo ! young Apollo ! 
The morning-bright Apollo ! young Apol- 
lo ! " 
I fled, it foUow'd me, and cried, " Apollo ! " 
O Father, and O Brethren, had ye felt 
Those pains of mine; O Saturn, hadst thou 

felt. 
Ye would not call this too indulged tongue 
Presumptuous, in thus venturing to be 

heard.' 

So far her voice flow'd on, like timorous 
brook 300 

That, lingering along a pebbled coast. 
Doth fear to meet the sea: but sea it met. 
And shudder'd; for the overwhelming 

voice 
Of huge Enceladus swallow'd it in wrath: 
The ponderous syllables, like sullen waves 
In the half-glutted hollows of I'eef-rocks, 
Came booming thus, while still upon his 

arm 
He lean'd; not rising, from supreme con- 
tempt. 
* Or shall we listen to the over- wise. 
Or to the over-foolish giant, Gods ? 310 

Not thunderbolt on thunderbolt, till all 
That rebel Jove's whole armoury were 

spent, 
Not world on world upon these shoulders 

piled, 
Could agonize me more than baby-words 
In midst of this dethronement horrible. 



HYPERION 



209 



Speak ! roar ! shout ! yell ! ye sleepy Ti- 
tans all. 
Do ye forget the blows, the buffets vile ? 
Are ye not smitten by a youngling arm ? 
Dost thou forget, sham Monarch of the 

Waves, 
Thy scalding in the seas ? What ! have I 

roused 32° 

Your spleens with so few simple words as 

these ? 
O joy ! for now I see ye are not lost: 
O joy ! for now I see a thousand eyes 
Wide -glaring for revenge.' — As this he 

said, 
He lifted up his stature vast, and stood. 
Still without intermission speaking thus: 
' Now ye are flames, I '11 tell you how to 

burn. 
And purge the ether of our enemies; 
How to feed fierce the crooked stings of fire, 
And singe away the swollen clouds of 

Jove, 330 

Stifling that puny essence in its tent. 
O let him feel the evil he hath done; 
For though I scorn Oceanus's lore. 
Much pain have I for more than loss of 

realms: 
The days of peace and slumberous calm 

are fled; 
Those days, all innocent of scathing war. 
When all the fair Existences of heaven 
Came open-eyed to guess what we would 

speak : — 
That was before our brows were taught to 

frown, 
Before our lips knew else but solemn 

sounds; 340 

That was before we knew the winged 

thing. 
Victory, might be lost, or might be won. 
And be ye mindful that Hyperion, 
Our brightest brother, still is undis- 

graced — 
Hyperion, lo ! his radiance is here ! ' 

All eyes were on Enceladns's face, 
And they beheld, while still Hyperion's 
name 



Flew from his lips up to the vaulted rocks, 
A pallid gleam across his features stern: 
Not savage, for he saw full many a God 
Wroth as himself. He look'd upon them 

all, 351 

And in each face he saw a gleam of light, 
But splendider in Saturn's, whose hoar 

locks 
Shone like the bubbling foam about a keel 
When the prow sweeps into a midnight 

cove. 
In pale and silver silence they remain'd, 
Till suddenly a splendour, like the morn, 
Pervaded all the beetling gloomy steeps. 
All the sad spaces of oblivion. 
And every gulf, and every chasm old, 360 
And every height, and every sullen depth, 
Voiceless, or hoarse with loud tormented 

streams: 
And all the everlasting cataracts. 
And all the headlong torrents far and near, 
Mantled before in darkness and huge 

shade. 
Now saw the light and made it terrible. 
It was Hyperion : — a granite peak 
His bright feet touch'd, and there he stay'd 

to view 
The misery his brilliance had betray'd 
To the most hateful seeing of itself. 370 
Golden his hair of short Numidian curl. 
Regal his shape majestic, a vast shade 
In midst of his own brightness, like the 

bulk 
Of Memnon's image at the set of sun 
To one who travels from the dusking 

East: 
Sighs, too, as mournful as that Memnon's 

harp, 
He utter'd, while his hands contemplative 
He press'd together, and in silence stood. 
Despondence seized again the fallen Gods 
At sight of the dejected King of Day, 380 
And many hid their faces from the light: 
But fierce Enceladus sent forth his eyes 
Among the brotherhood; and, at their 

glare, 
Uprose lapetus, and Creiis too. 
And Phorcus, sea-born, and together strode 



HYPERION 



To where he tower'd on his eminence. 
There those four shouted forth old Saturn's 

name; 
Hyperion from the peak loud answered 

* Saturn ! ' 
Saturn sat near the Mother of the Gods, 
In whose face was no joy, though all the 

Gods 390 

Gave from their hollow throats the name 

of ♦ Saturn ! ' 

BOOK III 

Thus in alternate uproar and sad peace, 

Amazed were those Titans utterly. 

O leave them, Muse ! O leave them to 

their woes; 
For thou art weak to sing such tumults 

dire: 
A solitary sorrow best befits 
Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief. 
Leave them, O Muse ! for thou anon wilt 

find 
Many a fallen old Divinity 
Wandering in vain about bewildered shores. 
Meantime touch piously the Delphic harp, 
And not a wind of heaven but will 

breathe i i 

In aid soft warble from the Dorian flute; 
For lo ! 't is for the Father of all verse. 
Flush every thing that hath a vermeil hue. 
Let the rose glow intense and warm the air. 
And let the clouds of even and of morn 
Float in voluptuous fleeces o'er the hills; 
Let the red wine within the goblet boil, 
Cold as a bubbling well; let faint-lipp'd 

shells, 
On sands or in great deeps, vermilion turn 
Through all their labyrinths; and let the 

maid 21 

Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss sur- 
prised. 
Chief isle of the embowered Cyclades, 
Rejoice, O Delos, with thine olives green. 
And poplars, and lawn-shading palms, and 

beech. 
In which the Zephyr breathes the loudest 

song. 



And hazels thick, dark-stemm'd beneath 

the shade: 
Apollo is once more the golden theme ! 
Where was he, when the Giant of the Sun 
Stood bright, amid the sorrow of his peers ? 
Together had he left his mother fair 31 

And his twin-sister sleeping in their bower, 
And in the morning twilight wandered 

forth 
Beside the osiers of a rivulet, 
Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale. 
The nightingale had ceased, and a few 

stars 
Were lingering in the heavens, while the 

thrush 
Began calm-throated. Throughout all the 

isle 
There was no covert, no retired cave 
Unhaunted by the murmurous noise of 

waves, 40 

Though scarcely heard in many a green re- 
cess. 
He listen'd, and he wept, and his bright 

tears 
Went trickling down the golden bow he 

held. 
Thus with half-shut suffused eyes he stood. 
While from beneath some cumbrous boughs 

hard by 
With solemn step an awful Goddess came. 
And there was purport in her looks for 

him. 
Which he with eager guess began to read 
Perplex'd, the while melodiously he said: 
' How cam'st thou over the unfooted sea ? 
Or hath that antique mien and robed 

form 5 > 

Moved in these vales invisible till now ? 
Sure I have heard those vestments sweep' 

ing o'er 
The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone 
In cool mid-forest. Surely I have traced 
The rustle of those ample skirts about 
These grassy solitudes, and seen the flow- 
ers 
Lift up their heads, and still the whisper 

pass'd. 
Goddess ! I have beheld those eyes before. 



HYPERION 



And their eternal calm, and all that face, 
Or I have dream 'd.' — * Yes,' said the su- 
preme shape, 6i 
' Thou hast dream'd of me ; and awaking 

"P 
Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side. 
Whose strings touch'd by thy fingers, all 

the vast 
Unwearied ear of the whole universe 
Listen'd in pain and pleasure at the birth 
Of such new tuneful wonder. Is 't not 

strange 
That thou shouldst weep, so gifted ? Tell 

me, youth. 
What sorrow thou canst feel ; for I am sad 
When thou dost shed a tear: explain thy 

griefs 70 

To one who in this lonely isle hath been 
The watcher of thy sleep and hours of life, 
From the young day when first thy infant 

hand 
Pluek'd witless the weak flowers, till thine 

arm 
Could bend that bow heroic to all times. 
Show thy heart's secret to an ancient 

Power 
Who hath forsaken old and sacred thrones 
For prophecies of thee, and for the sake 
Of loveliness new-born.' — Apollo then. 
With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes. 
Thus answer'd, while his white melodious 

throat 81 

Throbb'd with the syllables: — 'Mnemo- 
syne ! 
Thy name is on my tongue, I know not 

how; 
Why should I tell thee what thou so well 

seest ? 
Why should I strive to show what from 

thy lips 
Would come no mystery ? For me, dark, 

dark. 
And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes: 
I strive to search wherefore I am so sad. 
Until a melancholy numbs my limbs; 
And tlien upon the grass I sit, and moan, go 
Like one who once had wings. — O why 

should I 



Feel cursed and thwarted, when the liege- 
less air 
Yields to my step aspirant ? why should I' 
Spurn the green turf as hateful to my 

feet? 
Goddess benign, point forth some unknown 

thing: 
Are there not other regions than this isle ? 
What are the stars ? There is the sun, the 

sun ! 
And the most patient brilliance of the 

moon ! 
And stars by thousands ! Point me out 

the way 
To any one particular beauteous star, 100 
And I will flit into it with my lyre. 
And make its silvery splendour pant with 

bliss. 
I have heard the cloudy thunder: Where 

is power ? 
Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity 
Makes this alarum in the elements, 
While I here idle listen on the shores 
In fearless yet in aching ignorance ? 
O tell me, lonely Goddess, by thy harp. 
That waileth every morn and eventide. 
Tell me why thus I rave, about these 

groves ! no 

Mute thou remainest — Mute ! yet I can 

read 
A wondrous lesson in thy silent face : 
Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. 
Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, 

rebellions. 
Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, 
Creations and destroyings, all at once 
Pour into the wide hollows of my brain. 
And deify me, as if some blithe wine 
Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, 119 
And so become immortal.' — Thus the God, 
While his enkindled eyes, with level glance 
Beneath his white soft temples, steadfast 

kept 
Trembling with light upon Mnemosyne. 
Soon wild commotions shook him, and made 

flush 
All the immortal fairness of his limbs: 
Most like the struggle at the gate of death; 



HYPERION 



Or liker still to one who should take leave 
Of pale immortal death, and with a pang 
As hot as death's is chill, with fierce con- 
vulse 
Die into life : so young Apollo anguish'd : 130 
His very hair, his golden tresses famed 
Kept undulation round bis eager neck. 



During the pain Mnemosyne upheld 

Her arms as one who prophesied. — At 

length 
Apollo shriek 'd; — and lo ! from all his 

limbs 
Celestial 



TO AUTUMN 



In a letter to Reynolds, written from Win- 
chester, September 22, 1819, Keats jots down 
these sentences : ' How beautiful the season is 
now — How fine the air. A temperate sharp- 
ness about it. Really, without joking', chaste 
weather — Dian skies — I never liked stubble- 
fields so much as now — Aye, better than the 



chilly green of the spring. Somehow, a stnb- 
ble-field looks warm in the same way that some 
pictures look warm. This struck me so much 
in my Sunday's walk that I composed upon it.' 
These autumn days in Winchester were the last 
of happy health for Keats. The poem was in- 
cluded in the 1820 volume. 



Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
With fruit tlie vines that round the 
thatch-eaves run; 
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage- 
trees, 
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the 
core; 
To swell the gourd, and plump the 
hazel shells 
With a sweet kernel; to set budding 
more, 
And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
Until they think warm days will never 
cease, 
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their 
clammy cells. 



Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? 
. Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may 

find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing 
wind ; 
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep. 
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while 



J;hy hook 



Spares the next swath and all its 
twined flowers: 
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
Steady thy laden head across a brook; 
Or by a cider-press, with patient look. 
Thou watcbest the last ooziugs, hours 
by hours. 



Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, 
where are they ? 
Think not of them, thou hast thy music 
too, — 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying 
day, 
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy 
hue; 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats 
mourn 
Among the river sallows, borne aloft 
Or sinking as the light wind lives or 
dies; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from 
hilly bourn; 
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble 

soft 
The redbreast whistles from a garden- 
croft. 
And gathering swallows twitter in the 
skies. 



213 



VERSES TO FANNY BRAWNE 



Although these are not the only poems 
which owe their origin to Keats's consuming 
passion, they are grouped here because, ap- 

SONNET 

The date 1819 is appended to this sonnet in 
Life, Letters and Literary Remains. Mr. For- 
man connects it with a letter written to Fanny 
Brawne, October 11, 1819. 

The day is gone, and all its sweets are 
gone ! 
Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft band, and 
softer breast, 
Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi- 
tone, 
Bright eyes, accomplish'd shape, and 
lang'rous waist ! 
Faded the flower and all its budded charms. 
Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes. 
Faded the shape of beauty from my arms. 
Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, 
paradise ! 
Vanish'd unseasonably at shut of eve. 

When the dusk holiday — or holinight — 
Of fragrant-curtain'd love begins to weave 
The woof of darkness thick, for hid de- 
light: 
But, as I 've read love's missal through to- 
day, 
He '11 let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray. 



LINES TO FANNY 

First published in Life, Letters and Literary 
Remains, and there dated October, 1819 ; their 
exact date seems to be indicated by a passage 
in a letter to Fanny Brawne, written October 
13, 1819, intimating some work, and breaking 
out into : ' I cannot proceed with any degree of 
content. I must write you a line or two and 
see if that will assist in dismissing you from 
iny mind for ever so short a time.' 



parently written in the same period, they stand 
as a painful witness to the ebbing tide of 
Keats's life. 

What can I do to drive away 
Remembrance from my eyes ? for they 

have seen. 
Aye, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen ! 
Touch has a memory. O say, love, say. 
What can I do to kill it and be free 
In my old liberty ? 

When every fair one that I saw was fair. 
Enough to catch me in but half a snare. 
Not keep me there: • 

When, howe'er poor or particolour'd things, 
My muse had wings. 
And ever ready was to take her course 
Whither I bent her force, 
Uniutellectual, yet divine to me; — 
Divine, I say ! — What sea-bird o'er the 

sea 
Is a philosopher the while he goes 
Winging along where the great water 

throes ? 

How shall I do 

To get anew 
Those moulted feathers, and so mount once 
more 

Above, above 

The reach of fluttering Love, 
And make him cower lowly while I soar ? 
Shall I gulp wine ? No, that is vulgar- 
ism, 
A heresy and schism. 

Foisted into the canon law of love; — 
No, — wine is only sweet to happy men; 

More dismal cares 

Seize on me unawares, — 
Where shall I learn to get my peace again ? 
To banish thoughts of that most hateful 
land, 



214 



TO FANNY 



215 



Dungeoner of my friends, that wicked 
strand 

Where they were wreck'd and live a 
wrecked life; 

That monstrous region, whose dull rivers 
pour, 

Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore, 

Unown'd of any weedy-haired gods; 

Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scour- 
ging rods. 

Iced in the great lakes, to afflict mankind; 

Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, 
and blind, 

Would fright a Drjad; whose harsh herb- 
aged meads 

Make lean and lank the starved ox while 
he feeds; 

There bad flowers have no scent, birds no 
sweet song. 

And great unerring Nature once seems 
wrong. 

O, for some sunny spell 

To dissipate the shadows of this hell ! 

Say they are gone, — with the new dawn- 
ing light 

Steps forth my lady bright ! 

O, let me once more rest 

My soul upon that dazzling breast ! 

Let once again these aching arms be placed, 

The tender gaolers of thy waist ! 

And let me feel that warm breath here and 
there 



To spread a rapture in my very hair, — 

O, the sweetness of the pain ! 

Give me those lips again ! 

Enough ! Enough ! it is enough for me 

To dream of thee ! 



TO FANNY 

With the date 1819 in Life, Letters and Lit- 
erary Remains. 

I CRY your mercy — pity — love — aye, 
love ! 
Merciful love that tantalizes not, 
Oue-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless 
love, 
Unmask'd, and being seen — without a 
blot! 
O ! let me have thee whole, — all — all — 
be mine ! 
That shape, that fairness, that sweet mi- 
nor zest 
Of love, your kiss, — those hands, those 
eyes divine. 
That warm, white, lucent, million-plea- 
sured breast, — 
Yourself — your soul — in pity give me 
all. 
Withhold no atom's atom, or I die. 
Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall, 

Forget, in the mist of idle misery. 
Life's purposes — the palate of my mind 
Losing its gust, and my ambition blind ! 



THE CAP AND BELLS 

OR, THE JEALOUSIES 

A Faery Tale. Unfinished 



In a letter to John Taylor, his publisher, 
written from Harapstead, November 17, 1819, 
Keats, who was then in his most restless mood, 
writes impulsively : ' I have come to a deter- 
mination not to publish anything I have now 
ready written ; but, for all that, to publish a 
poem before long, and that I hope to make a 
fine one. As the marvellous is the most en- 
ticing, and the surest guarantee of harmonious 
numbers, I have been endeavouring to per- 
suade myself to untether Fancy, and to let her 
manage for herself. I and myself cannot agree 
about this at all. Wonders are no wonders to 
me. I am more at home amongst men and 
women. I would rather read Chaucer than 
Ariosto. The little dramatic skill I may as yet 
have, however badly it might show in a drama, 
would, I think, be sufficient for a poem. I 
wish to diffuse the colouring of " St. Agnes' 
Eve " throughout a poem in which character 
and sentiment would be the figures to such 
drapery. Two or three such poems, if God 
should spare me, written in the course of the 



next six years, would be a famous Gradus ad 
Parnassum altissimum — I mean they would 
nerve me up to the writing of a few fine plays 
— my greatest ambition, when I do feel am- 
bitious. I am sorry to say that is very seldom.' 
Lord Houghton quotes from Keats's friend, 
Charles Armitage Brown : ' This Poem was 
written subject to future amendments and 
omissions ; it was begun without a plot, and 
without any presented laws for the supernatu- 
ral machinery.' Keats apparently designed 
publishing the poem with the signature ' Lucy 
Vaughan Lloyd,' and it can only be taken as 
one of his feverish attempts at using his intel- 
lectual powers for self-maintenance, when he 
was discouraged at the prospect of commercial 
success with his genuine poetry. Hunt pub- 
lished some of the stanzas in The Indicator 
August 23, 1820, as written by 'a very good 
poetess Lucy V L ' and Lord Hough- 
ton included the whole in Life, Letters and 
Literary Remains. 



In midmost Ind, beside Hydaspes cool, 
There stood, or hover'd, tremulous in the 

air, 
A faery city, 'neath the potent rule 
Of Emperor Elfinan; famed ev'ry where 
For love of mortal women, maidens fair. 
Whose lips were solid, whose soft hands 

were made 
Of a fit mould and beauty, ripe and rare, 
To pamper his slight wooing, warm yet 

staid: 
He loved girls smooth as shades, but hated 

a mere shade. 



This was a crime forbidden by the law; 
And all the priesthood of his city wept. 
For ruin and dismay they well foresaw, 
If impious prince no bound or limit kept. 
And faery Zendervester overstept; 
They wept, he sinn'd, and still he would 

sin on, 
They dreamt of sin, and he sinn'd while 

they slept; 
In vain the pulpit thunder'd at the 
throne. 
Caricature was vain, and vain the tart lam- 
poon. 



2l6 






THE CAP AND BELLS 



217 



Which seeing, his high court of parlia- 
ment 

Laid a remonstrance at his Highness' 
feet, 

Praying his royal senses to content 

Themselves with what in faery land was 
sweet. 

Befitting best that shade with shade 
should meet: 

Whereat, to calm their fears, he pro- 
mised soon 

From mortal tempters all to make re- 
treat — 

Ay, even on the first of the new moon, 
An immaterial wife to espouse as heaven's 
boon. 



Meantime he sent a fluttering embassy 

To Piginio, of Imaus sovereign. 

To half beg, and half demand, respect- 

fully. 
The hand of his fair daughter Bella- 

naine; 
An audience had, and speeching done, 

they gain 
Their point, and bring the weeping bride 

away; 
Whom, with but one attendant, safely 

lain 
Upon their wings, they bore in bright 

array, 
While little harps were touch'd by many a 

lyric fay. 



As in old pictures tender cherubim 

A child's soul thro' the sapphired canvas 

bear. 
So, thro' a real heaven, on they swim 
With the sweet princess on her plumaged 

lair, 
Speed giving to the winds her lustrous 

hair; 
And so she journey'd, sleeping or awake. 
Save when, for healthful exercise and 

air. 



She chose to ' promener a I'aile,' or take 
A pigeon's somerset, for sport or change's 
sake. 



' Dear Princess, do not whisper me so 

loud,' 
Quoth Corallina, nurse and confidant, 
' Do not you see there, lurking in a cloud. 
Close at your back, that sly old Crafti- 

cant ? 
He hears a whisper plainer than a rant: 
Dry up your tears, and do not look so 

blue; 
He 's Elfinan's great state-spy militant, 
He 's running, lying, flying footman, 

too — 
Dear mistress, let him have no handle 

against you ! 



' Show him a mouse's tail, and he will 

guess, 
With metaphysic swiftness, at the mouse; 
Show him a garden, and with speed no 

less. 
He '11 surmise sagely of a dwelling- 
house. 
And plot, in the same minute, how to 

chouse 
The owner out of it; show him a — ' 

' Peace ! 
Peace ! nor contrive thy mistress' ire to 

rouse ! ' 
Return'd the princess, ' my tongue shall 

not cease 
Till from this hated match I get a free 

release. 



' Ah, beauteous mortal ! ' ' Hush ! ' quoth 

Coralline, 
' Really you must not talk of him indeed.' 
' You hush ! ' replied the mistress, with 

a shine 
Of anger in her eyes, enough to breed 
In stouter hearts than nurse's fear and 

dread : 



2l8 



THE CAP AND BELLS 



'T was not the glance itself made nursey 


He goes on to expose, with heart and 


fliuch, 


soul. 


But of its threat she took the utmost 


What vice in this or that year was the 


heed; 


rage. 


Not liking in her heart an hour-long 


Backbiting all the world in every page; 


pinch, 


With special strictures on the horrid 


Or a sharp needle run into her back an 


crime. 


inch. 


(Section'd and subsection'd with learn- 




ing sage,) 


IX 


Of faeries stooping on their wings sub- 


So she was silenced, and fair Bellanaine, 


lime 


Writhing her little body with ennui, 


To kiss a mortal's lips, when such were in 


Continued to lament and to complain, 


their prime. 


That Fate, cross-purposing, should let 




her be 


XII 


Ravish'd away far from her dear coun- 


Turn to the copious index, you will find 


tree; 


Somewhere in the column, headed let- 


That all her feelings should be set at 


ter B, 


nought, 


The name of Bellanaine, if you 're not 


In trumping up this match so hastily. 


blind; 


With lowland blood; and lowland blood 


Then pray refer to the text, and you 


she thought 


will see 


Poison, as every stanch true-born Imaian 


An article made up of calumny 


ought. 


Against this highland princess, rating 
116 r 


X 


For giving way, so over fashionably. 


Sorely she grieved, and wetted three or 


To this new-fangled vice, which seems a 


four 


burr 


White Provence rose-leaves with her 


Stuck in his moral throat, no coughing e'er 


faery tears. 


could stir. 


But not for this cause; — alas ! she had 




more 


XIII 


Bad reasons for her sorrow, as appears 


There he says plainly that she loved a 


In the famed memoirs of a thousand 


man ! 


years. 


That she around him flutter'd, flirted, 


Written by Crafticant, and published 


toy'd. 


By Parpaglion and Co., (those sly com- 


Before her marriage with great Elfi- 


peers 


nan; 


Who raked up ev'ry fact against the 


That after marriage too, she never joy'd 


dead,) 


In husband's company, but still employ'd 


In Scarab Street, Panthea, at the Jubal's 


Her wits to 'scape away to Angle-land; 


Head. 


Where lived the youth, who worried and 




annoy'd 


XI 


Her tender heart, and its warm ardours 


Where, after a long hypercritic howl 


fann'd 


Against the vicious manners of the 


To such a dreadful blaze, her side would 


age, 


scorch her hand. 



THE CAP AND BELLS 



219 



But let us leave this idle tittle-tattle 
To waiting - maids, and bed -room co- 
teries, 
Nor till fit time against her fame wage 

battle. 
Poor Eliinan is very ill at ease. 
Let us resume his subject if you please : 
For it may comfort and console him 

much, 
To rhyme and syllable his miseries; 
Poor Elfinan ! whose cruel fate was 
such, 
He sat and cursed a bride he knew he 
could not touch. 



Soon as (according to his promises) 
The bridal embassy had taken wing. 
And vanish'd, bird-like, o'er the suburb 

trees. 
The emperor, empierced with the sharp 

sting 
Of love, retired, vex'd and murmuring 
Like any drone shut from the fair bee- 
queen, 
Into his cabinet, and there did fling 
His limbs upon the sofa, full of spleen. 
And damn'd his House of Commons, in 
complete chagrin. 



' I '11 trounce some of the members,' cried 

the Prince, 
' I '11 put a mark against some rebel 

names, 
I '11 make the Opposition-benches wince, 
I '11 show them very soon, to all their 

shames. 
What 'tis to smother up a Prince's 

flames; 
That ministers should join in it, I own, 
Surprises me ! — they too at these high 



games 



Am I an Emperor ? Do I wear a crown ? 
j Imperial Elfinan, go hang thyself or drown ! 



' I '11 trounce 'em ! — there 's the square- 
cut chancellor, 

His son shall never touch that bishopric ; 

And for the nephew of old Palfior, 

I 'il show him that his speeches made me 
sick, 

And give the colonelcy to Phalaric; 

The tiptoe marquis, moral and gallant, 

Sliall lodge in shabby taverns upon tick; 

And for the Speaker's second cousin's 
aunt. 
She sha'n't be maid of honour, — by heaven 
that she sha'n't ! 

xvm 
' I '11 shirk the Duke of A. ; I '11 cut his 

brother; 
I '11 give no garter to his eldest son; 
I won't speak to his sister or his mother ! 
The Viscount B. shall live at cut-and- 

run; 
But how in tlie world can I contrive to 

stun 
That fellow's voice, which plagues me 

worse than any, 
That stubborn fool, that impudent state- 
dun, 
Who sets down ev'ry sovereign as a 

zany, — 
That vulgar commoner, Esquire Bianco- 

pany ? 



' Monstrous affair ! Pshaw ! pah ! what 

ugly minx 
Will they fetch from Imaus for my 

bride ? 
Alas ! my wearied heart within me 

sinks. 
To think that I must be so near allied 
To a cold dullard fay, — ah, woe betide ! 
Ah, fairest of all human loveliness ! 
Sweet Bertha ! what crime can it be to 

glide 
About the fragrant plaitings of thy dress. 
Or kiss thine eye, or count thy locks, tress 

after tress ? ' 



THE CAP AND BELLS 



XX 

So said, one minute's while his eyes re- 

main'd 
Half lidded, piteous, languid, innocent; 
But, in a wink, their splendour they re- 

gain'd. 
Sparkling revenge with amorous fury 

blent. 
Love thwarted in bad temper oft has 

vent: 
He rose, he stampt his foot, he rang the 

bell. 
And order'd some death-warrants to be 

sent 
For signature: — somewhere the tem- 
pest fell, 
As many a poor fellow does not live to 

tell. 

XXI 

' At the same time, Eban,' — (this was 

his page, 
A fay of colour, slave from top to toe, 
Sent as a present, while yet under age, 
From the Viceroy of Zanguebar, — wise, 

slow, 
His speech, his only words were 'yes' 

and ' no,' 
But swift of look, and foot, and wing 

was he,) — 
' At the same time, Eban, this instant 

SO 
To Hum the soothsayer, whose name I 

see 
Among the fresh arrivals in our empery. 



' Bring Hum to me ! But stay — here 
take my ring, 

The pledge of favour, that he not sus- 
pect 

Any foul play, or awkward murdering, 

Tho' I have bowstrung many of his sect; 

Throw in a hint, that if he should neg- 
lect 

One hour, the next shall see him in my 
grasp. 

And the next after that shall see him 
neck'd. 



Or swallow'd by my hunger - starved 
asp, — 
And mention ('t is as well) the torture of 
the wasp.' 

XXIII 

These orders given, the Prince, in half a 
pet. 

Let o'er the silk his propping elbow 
slide, 

Caught up his little legs, and, in a fret, 

Fell on the sofa on his royal side. 

The slave retreated backwards, humble- 
eyed. 

And with a slave-like silence closed the 
door. 

And to old Hum thro' street and alley 
hied ; 

He ' knew the city,' as we say, of yore, 
And for short cuts and turns, was nobody 
knew more. 

XXIV 

It was the time when wholesale dealers 

close 
Their shutters with a moody sense of 

wealth. 
But retail dealers, diligent, let loose 
The gas (objected to on score of health), 
Convey'd in little solder'd pipes by 

stealth, 
And make it flare in many a brilliant 

form. 
That all the powers of darkness it re- 

pell'th. 
Which to the oil-trade doth great scaith 

and harm. 
And supersedeth quite the use of the glow- 
worm. 



Eban, untempted by the pastry-cooks, 
(Of pastry he got store within the pal- 
ace,) 
With hasty steps, wrapp'd cloak, and 

solemn looks. 
Incognito upon his errand sallies. 
His smelling-bottle ready for the allies ; 



THE CAP AND BELLS 



He pass'd the hurdy-gurdies with dis- 
dain, 

Vowing he 'd have them sent on board 
the galleys; 

Just as he made his vow, it 'gan to rain. 
Therefore he call'd a coach, and bade it 
drive amain. 

XXVI 
* I '11 pull the string,' said he, and further 

said, 
' Polluted Jarvey ! Ah, thou filthy hack ! 
Whose springs of life are all dried up 

and dead. 
Whose linsey-woolsey lining hangs all 

slack, 
Whose rug is straw, whose wholeness is 

a crack ; 
And evermore thy steps go clatter-clit- 

ter; 
Whose glass once up can never be got 

back. 
Who prov'st, with jolting arguments and 

bitter, 
That 'tis of modern use to travel in a 

litter. 

XXVII 
' Thou inconvenience ! thou hungry crop 
For all corn ! thou snail-creeper to and 

fro, 
Who while thou goest ever seem'st to 

stop, 
And fiddle-faddle standest while you go; 
I' the morning, freighted with a weight 

of woe. 
Unto some lazar-house thou journeyest. 
And in the evening tak'st a double row 
Of dowdies, for some dance or party 

drest. 
Besides the goods meanwhile thou movest 

east and west. 

XXVIII 
' By thy ungallant bearing and sad mien. 
An inch appears the utmost thou couldst 

budge: 
Yet at the slightest nod, or hint, or sign, 



Round to the curb-stone patient dost 

thou trudge, 
School'd in a beckon, learned in a nudge, 
A dull-eyed Argus watching for a fare; 
Quiet and plodding thou dost bear no 

grudge 
To whisking tilburies, or phaetons rare, 
Curricles, or mail-coaches, swift beyond 

compare.' 

XXIX 

Philosophizing thus, he pull'd the check. 

And bade the coachman wheel to such a 
street. 

Who turning much his body, more his 
neck, 

Louted full low, and hoarsely did him 
greet: 

' Certes, Monsieur were best take to his 
feet, 

Seeing his servant can no farther drive 

For press of coaches, that to-night here 
meet. 

Many as bees about a straw-capp'd hive, 
When first for April honey into faint flow- 
ers they dive.' 



Eban then paid his fare, and tiptoe went 
To Hum's hotel; and, as he on did pass 
With head inclined, each dusky linea- 
ment 
Show'd in the pearl-paved street as in a 

glass; 
His purple vest, that ever peeping was 
Rich from the fluttering crimson of his 

cloak, 
His silvery trowsers, and his silken sash 
Tied in a burnish'd knot, their semblance 
took 
Upon the mirror'd walls, wherever he 
might look. 

XXXI 
He smiled at self, and, smiling, show'd 

his teeth. 
And seeing his white teeth, he smiled the 

more; 



THE CAP AND BELLS 



Lifted his eyebrows, spurn'd the path be- 


Coming down stairs, — by St. Bartholo- 


neath, 


mew ! 


Show'd teeth again, and smiled as hereto- 


As backwards as he can, — is 't some- 


fore, 


thing new ? 


Until he knoek'd at the magician's door; 


Or is 't his custom, in the name of fun ? ' 


Where, till the porter answer'd, might 


'He always comes down backward, with 


be seen. 


one shoe ' — 


In the clear panel more he could adore, — 


Return'd the porter — * off, and one shoe 


His turban wreathed of gold, and white. 


on. 


and green, 


Like, saving shoe for sock or stocking, my 


Mustaehios, ear-ring, nose-ring, and his sa- 


man John ! ' 


bre keen. 






XXXV 


XXXII 


It was indeed the great Magician, 


' Does not your master give a rout to- 


Feeling, with careful toe, for every stair, 


night ? ' 


And retrograding careful as he can, 


Quoth the dark page; * Oh, no ! ' return'd 


Backwards and downwards from his own 


the Swiss, 


two pair: 


' Next door but one to us, upon the right, 


' Salpietro ! ' exclaimed Hum, ' is the dog 


The Magazin des Modes now open is 


there ? 


Against the Emperor's wedding; — and, 


He 's always in my way upon the mat ! ' 


sir, this 


' He 's in the kitchen, or the Lord knows 


My master finds a monstrous horrid bore; 


where,' — 


As he retired, an hour ago iwis. 


Replied the Swiss, — ' the nasty, yelping 


"With his best beard and brimstone, to 


brat ! ' 


explore 


' Don't beat him ! ' return'd Hum, and on 


And cast a quiet figure in his second floor. 


the floor came pat. 


XXXIII 


XXXVI 


' Gad ! he 's obliged to stick to business ! 


Then facing right about, he saw the 


For chalk, I hear, stands at a pretty 


Page, 


price ; 


And said : ' Don't tell me what you want. 


And as for aqua vitse — there 's a mess ! 


Eban; 


The denies sapientioe of mice 


The Emperor is now in a huge rage, — 


Our barber tells me too are on the rise, — 


'T is nine to one he '11 give you the rattani 


Tinder 's a lighter article, — nitre pure 


Let us away ! ' Away together ran 


Goes off like lightning, — grains of Para- 


The plain-dress'd sage and spangled 


dise 


blackamoor. 


At an enormous figure ! — stars not 


Nor rested till they stood to cool, and fan. 


sure ! — 


And breathe themselves at th' Emperor's 


Zodiac will not move without a slight dou- 


chamber door. 


ceur ! 


When Eban thought he heard a soft impe- 




rial snore. 


XXXIV 




' Venus won't stir a peg without a fee. 


XXXVII 


And master is too partial entre nous 


' I thought you guess'd, foretold, or pro- 


To — ' 'Hush — hush!' cried Eban, 


phesied. 


♦ sure that is he 


That 's Majesty was in a raving fit ? ' 



THE CAP AND BELLS 



223 



' He dreams,' said Hum, ' or I have ever 


XL 


lied, 


Then turning round, he saw those trem- 


That he is tearing you, sir, bit by bit.' 


bling two: 


' He 's not asleep, and you have little 


' Eban,' said he, ' as slaves should taste 


wit,' 


the fruits 


Replied the Page, ' that little buzzing 


Of diligence, I shall remember you 


noise, 


To-morrow, or next day, as time suits, 


Whate'er your palmistry may make of 


In a finger conversation with my mutes, — 


it, 


Begone ! — for you, Chaldean ! here re- 


Comes from a plaything of the Em- 


main ! 


peror's choice. 


Fear not, quake not, and as good wine 


From a Man-Tiger-Organ, prettiest of his 


recruits 


toys.' 


A conjurer's spirits, what cup will you 




drain ? 


XXXVIII 


Sherry in silver, hock in gold, or glass'd 


Eban then usher'd in the learned Seer: 


champagne ? ' 


Elfinan's back was turn'd, but, ne'erthe- 




less, 


XLI 


Both, prostrate on the carpet, ear by 


' Commander of the Faithful ! ' answer'd 


ear. 


Hum, 


Crept silently, and waited in distress, 


In preference to these, I '11 merely taste 


Knowing the Emperor's moody bitter- 


A thimble-full of old Jamaica rum.' 


ness; 


* A simple boon ! ' said Elfinan, ' thou 


Eban especially, who on the floor 'gan 


may'st 


Tremble and quake to death, — he feared 


Have Nantz, with which my morning- 


less 


coffee 's laced.' ' 


A dose of senna-tea, or nightmare Gor- 


* I '11 have a glass of Nantz, then,' — said 


ge"- 


the Seer, — 


Than the Emperor when he play'd on his 


' Made racy — (sure my boldness is mis- 


Man-Tiger-Organ. 


placed !) — 




With the third part — (yet that is drink- 


XXXIX 


ing dear ! ) — 


They kiss'd nine times the carpet's vel- 


Of the least drop of creme de citron crystal 


vet face 


clear.' 


Of glossy silk, soft, smooth, and meadow- 




green, 


XLII 


Where the close eye in deep rich fur 


' I pledge you, Hum ! and pledge my 


might trace 


dearest love. 


A silver tissue, seantly to be seen, 


My Bertha!' 'Bertha! Bertha !' cried 


As daisies lurk'd in June-grass, buds in 


the sage. 


green; 


' I know a many Berthas ! ' * Mine 's 


Sudden the music ceased, sudden the 


above 


hand 


All Berthas ! ' sighed the Emperor. ' I 


Of majesty, by dint of passion keen, 


engage,' 


Doubled into a common fist, went grand, 


Said Hum, ' in duty, and in vassalage. 


And knock'd down three cut glasses, and 


1 ' Mr. Nisby is of opinion that laced coffee is bad for 


his best ink-stand. 


the heaid.' — Spectator. 



224 



THE CAP AND BELLS 



To mention all the Berthas in the 

earth; — 
There 's Bertha Watson, — and Miss 

Bertlia Page, — 
This famed for languid eyes, and that for 

mirth, — 
There 's Bertha Blount of York, — and 

Bertha Knox of Perth.' 

XLIII 
'You seem to know' — 'I do know,' 

answer'd Hum, 
' Your Majesty 's in love with some fine 

girl 
Named Bertha; but her surname will not 

come. 
Without a little conjuring.* ' 'T is Pearl, 
'T is Bertha Pearl ! What makes my 

brains so whirl ? 
And she is softer, fairer than her name ! ' 
' Where does she live ? ' ask'd Hum. 

' Her fair locks curl 
So brightly, they put all our fays to 

shame ! — 
Live ? — O ! at Canterbury, with her old 

grand dame.' 



' Good ! good ! ' cried Hum, ' I 've known 

her from a child ! 
She is a changeling of my management; 
She was born at midnight in an Indian 

wild ; 
Her mother's screams with the striped 

tiger's blent, 
While the torch-bearing slaves a halloo 

sent 
Into the jungles; and her palanquin. 
Rested amid the desert's dreariment. 
Shook with her agony, till fair were seen 
The little Bertha's eyes ope on the stars 

serene.' 

XLV 
* I can't say,' said the monarch, ' that 

may be 
Just as it happen'd, true or else a bam ! 
Drink up your brandy, and sit down by 

me. 



Feel, feel my pulse, how much in love I 

am; 
And if your science is not all a sham, 
Tell me some means to get the lady 

here.' 
' Upon my honour ! ' said the son of 

Cham.i 
' She is my dainty changeling, near and 

dear, 
Although her story sounds at first a little 

queer.' 

XLVI 
' Convey her to me. Hum, or by my 

crown. 
My sceptre, and my cross-surmounted 

globe, 
I '11 knock you — ' ' Does your majesty 

mean — down ? 
No, no, you never could my feelings 

probe 
To such a depth ! ' The Emperor took 

his robe, 
And wept upon its purple palatine. 
While Hum continued, shamming half 

a sob, — 
' In Canterbury doth your lady shine ? 
But let me cool your brandy with a lit.le 

wine.' 

XLVII 
Whereat a narrow Flemish glass he 

took. 
That since belong'd to Admiral De Witt, 
Admired it with a connoisseuring look. 
And with the ripest claret crowned it. 
And, ere the lively head could burst and 

flit. 
He turn'd it quickly, nimbly upside 

down. 
His mouth being held conveniently fit 
To catch the treasure : ' Best in all the 

town ! ' 
He said, smack'd his moist lips, and gave a 

pleasant frown. 

1 Cham is said to have been the inventor of magic. 
Lucy learnt this from Bayle's Dictionary, and had 
copied a long Latin note from that work. 



THE CAP AND BELLS 



225 



XL VIII 
' Ah ! good my Prince, weep not ! ' And 

then again 
He flll'd a bumper. ' Great Sire, do not 

weep ! 
Your pulse is shocking, but I '11 ease 

your pain.' 
'Fetch me that Ottoman, and prithee 

keep 
Your voice low,' said the Emperor, ' and 

steep 
Some lady's-fingers nice in Candy wine; 
And prithee, Hum, behind the screen do 

peep 
For the rose-water vase, magician mine ! 
And sponge my forehead — so my love doth 

make me pine.' 

XLIX 
' Ah, cursed Bellanaine ! ' ' Don't think 

of her,' 
Rejoin'd the Mago, ' but on Bertha muse; 
For, by my choicest best barometer, 
You shall not throttled be in marriage 

noose; 
I 've said it, sire; you only have to choose 
Bertha or Bellanaine.' So saying, he 

drew 
From the left pocket of his threadbare 

hose, 
A sampler hoarded slyly, good as new; 
Holding it by his thumb and finger full in 

view. 



* Sire, this is Bertha Pearl's neat handy- 
work, 

Her name, see here. Midsummer, ninety- 
one ' — 

Elfinan snatch'd it with a sudden jerk. 

And wept as if he never would have 
done. 

Honouring with royal tears the poor 
homespun; 

Whereon were broider'd tigers with black 
eyes. 

And long-tailed pheasants, and a rising 
sun, 



Plenty of posies, great stags, butterflies 
Bigger than stags — a moon — with other 
mysteries. 

LI 
The monarch handled o'er and o'er again 
These day-school hieroglyphics with a 

sigh; 
Somewhat in sadness, but pleased in the 

main, 
Till this oracular couplet met his eye 
Astounded — Cupid, I do thee defy ! 
It was too much. He shrunk back in 

his chair, 
Grew pale as death, and fainted — very 

nigh ! 
' Pho ! nonsense ! ' exclaim'd Hum, ' now 

don't despair: 
She does not mean it really. Cheer up, 

hearty — there ! 

LII 

' And listen to my words. You say you 

won't, 
On any terms, marry Miss Bellanaine; 
It goes against your conscience — good ! 

well, don't. 
You say, you love a mortal. I would 

fain 
Persuade your honour's highness to re- 
frain 
From peccadilloes. But, Sire, as I say. 
What good would that do ? And, to be 

more plain, 
You would do me a mischief some odd 

day. 
Cut ojff my ears and hands, or head too, by 

my fay ! 

LIII 

' Besides, manners forbid that I should 
pass any 

Vile strictures on the conduct of a prince 

Who should indulge his genius, if he has 
any, 

Not, like a subject, foolish matter mince. 

Now I think on't, perhaps I could con- 
vince 



226 



THE CAP AND BELLS 



Your Majesty there is no crime at all 


'Those wings to Canterbury you must 


In loving pretty little Bertha, since 


beat. 


She 's very delicate — not over tall, — 


If you hold Bertha as a worthy prize. 


A fairy's hand, and in the waist why — 


Look in the Almanack — Moore never 


very small.' 


lies — 




April the twenty-fourth — this coming 


LIV 


day. 


* Ring the repeater, gentle Hum ! ' ' 'T is 


Now breathing its new bloom upon the 


live,' 


skies, 


Said gentle Hum; ' the nights draw in 


Will end in St. Mark's Eve ; — you must 


apace ; 


away, 


The little birds I hear are all alive; 


For on that eve alone can you the maid 


I see the dawning touch'd upon your face ; 


convey.' 


Shall I put out the candles, please your 




Grace ? ' 


LVII 


' Do put them out, and, without more 


Then the magician solemnly 'gan to 


ado, 


frown. 


Tell me how I may that sweet girl em- 


So that his frost-white eye-brows, beet- 


brace, — 


ling low, 


How you can bring her to me.' ' That 's 


Shaded his deep green eyes, and wrinkles 


for you, 


brown 


Great Emperor ! to adventure, like a lover 


Plaited upon his furnace-scorched brow: 


true.' 


Forth from his hood that hung his neck 




below 


LV 


He lifted a bright casket of pure gold, 


* I fetch her ! ' — ' Yes, an 't like your 


Touch'd a spring-lock, and there in wool 


Majesty; 


or snow. 


And as she would be frighten'd wide 


Charm'd into ever freezing, lay an old 


awake, 


And legend-leaved book, mysterious to 


To travel such a distance through the 


behold. 


sky. 




Use of some soft manoeuvre you must 


LVIII 


make, 


' Take this same book — it will not bite 


For your convenience, and her dear 


you, Sire; 


nerves' sake; 


There, put it underneath your royal 


Nice way would be to bring her in a 


arm; 


swoon, 


Though it 's a pretty weight, it will not 


Anon, I '11 tell what course were best to 


tire, 


take; 


But rather on your journey keep you 


You must away this morning.' ' Hum ! 


warm : 


so soon ? ' 


This is the magic, this the potent charm, 


'Sire, you must be in Kent by twelve 


That shall drive Bertha to a fainting- 


o'clock at noon.' 


fit ! 




When the time comes, don't feel the least 


LVI 


alarm. 


At this great Caesar started on his feet. 


But lift her from the ground, and swiftly 


Lifted his wings, and stood attentive- 


flit 


wise. 


Back to your palace 



THE CAP AND BELLS 



227 



LIX 


LXII 


' What shall I do with that same book ? ' 


' Wounds ! how they shout ! ' said Hum, 


* Why merely 


' and there, — see, see, 


Lay it on Bertha's table, close beside 


Th' ambassador 's return'd from Pigmio ! 


Her work-box, and 't will help your pur- 


The morning 's very fine, — uncommonly! 


pose dearly; 


See, past the skirts of yon white cloud 


I say no more.' ' Or good or ill betide, 


they go, 


Through the wide air to Kent this morn 


Tinging it with soft crimsons ! Now 


I glide ! ' 


below 


Exclaim'd the Emperor, ' When I return, 


The sable-pointed heads of firs and pines 


Ask what you will, — I'll give you my 


They dip, move on, and with them moves 


new bride ! 


a glow 


And take some more wine, Hum ; — 0, 


Along the forest side ! Now amber lines 


Heavens ! I burn 


Reach the hill top, and now throughout the 


To be upon the wing ! Now, now, that 


valley shines.' 


minx I spurn ! ' 






LXIII 


LX 


* Why, Hum, you 're getting quite poeti- 


'Leave her to me,' rejoiu'd the magiau: 


cal ! 


* But how shall I account, illustrious fay ! 


Those nows you managed in a special 


For thine imperial absence ? Pho ! I 


style.' 


can 


' If ever you have leisure, Sire, you shall 


Say you are very sick, and bar the way 


See scraps of mine will make it worth 


To your so loving courtiers for one day; 


your while. 


If either of their two Archbishops' graces 


Tit-bits for Phoebus ! — yes, you well 


Should talk of extreme unction, I shall 


may smile. 


say 


Hark ! hark ! the bells ! ' « A little 


You do not like cold pig with Latin 


further yet. 


phrases. 


Good Hum, and let me view this mighty 


Which never should be used but in alarm- 


coil.' 


ing cases.' 


Then the great Emperor full graceful set 




His elbow for a prop, and snufif'd his 


LXI 


mignonette. 


' Open the window. Hum ; I 'm ready 




now !' 


LXIV 


' Zooks ! ' exclaim'd Hum, as up the sash 


The morn is full of holiday: loud bells 


he drew, 


With rival clamors ring from every spire; 


' Behold, your Majesty, upon the brow 


Cunningly-station'd music dies and swells 


Of yonder hill, what crowds of people ! ' 


In echoing places; when the winds re- 


' Whew ! 


spire. 


The monster's always after something 


Light flags stream out like gauzy tongues 


new,' 


of fire; 


Return'd his Highness, ' they are piping 


A metropolitan murmur, lifef ul, warm. 


hot 


Comes from the northern suburbs; rich 


To see my pigsney Bellanaine. Hum ! 


attire 


do 


Freckles with red and gold the moving 


Tighten my belt a little, — so, so, — not 


swarm ; 


Too tight, — the book ! — my wand ! — so, 


While here and there clear trumpets blow 


nothing is forgot.' 


a keen alarm. 



228 



THE CAP AND BELLS 



And now the fairy escort was seen clear, 
Like the old pageant of Aurora's train, 
Above a pearl-built minster, hovering 

near; 
First wily Crafticant, the chamberlain, 
Balanced upon his gray-grown pinions 

twain. 
His slender wand officially reveal'd; 
Then black gnomes scattering sixpences 

like rain; 
Then pages three and three; and next, 

slave-held, 
The Imaian 'scutcheon bright, — one mouse 

in argent field. 



Gentlemen pensioners next; and after 

them, 
A troop of winged Janizaries flew; 
Then slaves, as presents bearing many a 

gem; 
Then twelve physicians fluttering two 

and two; 
And next a chaplain in a cassock new; 
Then Lords in waiting; then (what head 

not reels 
For pleasure ?) — the fair Princess in 

full view. 
Borne upon wings, — and very pleased 

she feels 
To have such splendour dance attendance 

at her heels. 

LXVII 

For there was more magnificence behind : 

She waved her handkerchief. ' Ah, very 
grand ! ' 

Cried Elfinan, and closed the window- 
blind; 
' And, Hum, we must not shilly-shally 
stand, — 

Adieu ! adieu ! I 'm off for Angle-land ! 

I say, old Hocus, have you such a thing 

About you, — feel your pockets, I com- 
mand, — 

I want, this instant, an invisible ring, — 
Thank you, old mummy ! — now securely I 
take wing.' 



LXVIII 
Then Elfinan swift vaulted from the floor. 
And lighted graceful on the window-sill; 
Under one arm the magic book he bore. 
The other he could wave about at will; 
Pale was his face, he still look'd very ill : 
He bow'd at Bellanaine, and said — 

' Poor Bell ! 
Farewell ! farewell ! and if for ever ! still 
For ever fare thee well ! ' — and then he 

fell 
A laughing ! — snapp'd his fingers ! — 

shame it is to tell ! 



' By 'r Lady ! he is gone ! ' cries Hum, 

' and I, — 
(I own it), — have made too free with 

his wine; 
Old Crafticant will smoke me. By-the- 

bye ! 
This room is full of jewels as a mine, — 
Dear valuable creatures, how ye shine ! 
Some time to-day I must contrive a 

minute. 
If Mercury propitiously incline, 
To examine his scrutoire, and see what 's 

in it. 
For of superfluous diamonds I as well may 

thin it. 

LXX 
' The Emperor 's horrid bad ; yes, that 's 

my cue ! ' 
Some histories say that this was Hum's 

last speech; 
That, being fuddled, he went reeling 

through 
The corridor, and scarce upright could 

reach 
The stair-head ; that being glutted as a 

leech, 
And used, as we ourselves have just now 

said. 
To manage stairs reversely, like a peach 
Too ripe, he fell, being puzzled in his 

head 
With liquor and the staircase : verdict — 

found stone dead. 



THE CAP i 


\ND BELLS 229 


LXXI 


LXXIV 


This, as a falsehood, Craf ticanto treats ; 


' From two to half-past, dusky way we 


And as his style is of strange elegance, 


made. 


Gentle and tender, full of soft conceits. 


Above the plains of Gobi, — desert, 


(Much like our Boswell's,) we will take a 


bleak; 


glance 


Beheld afar off, in the hooded shade 


At his sweet prose, and, if we can, make 


Of darkness, a great mountain (strange 


dance 


to speak), 


His woven periods into careless rhyme; 


Spitting, from forth its sulphur-baken 


0, little faery Pegasus ! rear — prance — 


peak, 


Trot round the quarto — ordinary time ! 


A fan-shaped burst of blood-red, arrowy 


March, little Pegasus, with pawing hoof 


fire. 


sublime ! 


Turban'd with smoke, which still away 




did reek. 


LXXII 


Solid and black from that eternal pyre. 


' Well, let us see, — tenth book and chapter 


Upon the laden winds that scantly could 


nine,' — 


respire. 


Thus Craf ticant pursues his diary : — 




' 'T was twelve o'clock at night, the wea- 


LXXV 


ther fine. 


* Just upon three o'clock, a falling star 


Latitude thirty-six; our scouts descry 


Created an alarm among our troop. 


A flight of starlings making rapidly 


Kill'd a man-cook, a page, and broke a 


Towards Thibet. Mem. : — birds fly in 


jar, 


the night; 


A tureen, and three dishes, at one swoop. 


From twelve to half -past — wings not fit 


Then passing by the Princess, singed her 


to fly 


hoop: 


For a thick fog — the Princess sulky 


Could not conceive what Coralline was at. 


quite: 


She clapp'd her hands three times, and 


Call'd for an extra shawl, and gave her 


cried out " Whoop ! " 


nurse a bite. 


Some strange Imaian custom. A large 
bat 
Came sudden 'fore my face, and brush'd 


LXXIII 


' Five minutes before one — brought 


against my hat. 


down a moth 




With my new double-barrel — stew'd 


LXXVI 


the thighs, 


' Five minutes thirteen seconds after 


And made a very tolerable broth — 


three. 


Princess turn'd dainty, to our great sur- 


Far in the west a mighty fire broke out, 


prise. 


Conjectured, on the instant, it might be 


Alter'd her mind, and thought it very 


The city of Balk — 't was Balk beyond 


nice: 


all doubt: 


Seeing her pleasant, tried her with a 


A griffin, wheeling here and there about 


pun, 


Kept reconnoitering us — doubled our 


She frown'd; a monstrous owl across us 


guard — 


flies 


Lighted our torches, and kept up a shout. 


About this time, — a sad old figure of 


Till he sheer'd off — the Princess very 


fun; 


scared — 


Bad omen — this new match can't be a 


And many on their marrow-bones for death 


happy one. 


prepared. 



230 



THE CAP AND BELLS 



LXXVII 


The Princess fell asleep, and, in her 


'At half-past three arose the cheerful 


dream, 


moon — 


Talk'd of one Master Hubert, deep in her 


Bivouack'd for four minutes on a cloud — 


esteem. 


Where from the earth we heard a lively 




tune 


LXXX 


Of tambourines and pipes, severe and 


' About this time — making delightful 


loud, 


way — 


While on a flowery lawn a brilliant 


Shed a quill-feather from my larboard 


crowd 


wing — 


Cinque-parted danced, some half asleep 


Wish'd, trusted, hoped 't was no sign of 


reposed 


decay — 


Beneath the green-faned cedars, some 


Thank Heaven, I 'm hearty yet ! — 't was 


did shroud 


no such thing: — 


In silken tents, and 'mid light fragrance 


At five the golden light began to spring, 


dozed. 


With fiery shudder through the bloomed 


Or on the open turf their soothed eyelids 


east; 


closed. 


At six we heard Panthea's churches 


LXXVIII 


ring — 
The city all his unhived swarms had cast. 


' Dropp'd my gold watch, and kill'd a 


To watch our grand approach, and hail us 


kettle-drum — 


as we pass'd. 


It went for apoplexy — foolish folks ! — 




Left it to pay the piper — a good sum — 


LXXXI 


(I 've got a conscience, maugre people's 


' As flowers turn their faces to the sun. 


jokes,) 


So on our flight with hungry eyes they 


To scrape a little favour; 'gan to coax 


gaze, 


Her Highness' pug-dog — got a sharp 


And, as we shaped our course, this, that 


rebuff — 


way run, 


She wish'd a game at whist — made 


With mad-cap pleasure, or hand-clasp'd 


three revokes — 


amaze : 


Turn'd from myself, her partner, in a 


Sweet in the air a mild-toned music plays. 


huff; 


And progresses through its own laby- 


His Majesty will know her temper time 


rinth; 


enough. 


Buds gather'd from the green spring's 




middle-days, 


LXXIX 


They scatter'd — daisy, primrose, hya- 


' She cried for chess — I play'd a game 


cinth — 


with her — 


Or round white columns wreathed from 


Castled her king with such a vixen 


capital to plinth. 


look, 




It bodes ill to his Majesty — (refer 


LXXXII 


To the second chapter of my fortieth 


' Onward we floated o'er the panting 


book, 


streets. 


And see what hoity-toity airs she took). 


That seem'd throughout with upheld 


At half-past four the morn essay'd to 


faces paved; 


beam — 


Look where we will, our bird's-eye vision 


Saluted, as we pass'd, an early rook, — 


meets 



THE CAP AND BELLS 



231 



Legions of holiday; bright standards 


Congees and scrape-graces of every sort, 


waved, 


And all the smooth routine of gallan- 


And fluttering ensigns emulously craved 


tries, 


Our minute's glance; a busy thunderous 


Was seen, to our immoderate surprise. 


roar, 


A motley crowd thick gather'd in the 


From square to square, among the build- 


hall, 


ings raved, 


Lords, scullions, deputy-scullions, with 


As when the sea, at flow, gluts up once 


wild cries 


more 


Stunning the vestibule from wall to wall, 


The craggy hollowness of a wild-reefed 


Where the Chief Justice on his knees and 


shore. 


hands doth crawl. 


LXXXIII 


LXXXVI 


* And " Bellanaine for ever ! " shouted 


' Counts of the palace, and the state pur- 


they! 


veyor 


While that fair Princess, from her 


Of moth's-down, to make soft the royal 


winged chair, 


beds. 


Bow'd low with high demeanour, and, to 


The Common Council and my fool Lord 


pay 


Mayor 


Their new-blown loyalty with guerdon 


Marching a-row, each other slipshod 


fair. 


treads; 


Still emptied, at meet distance, here and 


Powder'd bag-wigs and ruffy-tuffy heads 


there, 


Of cinder wenches meet and soil each 


A plenty horn of jewels. And here I 


other; 


(Who wish to give the devil her due) 


Toe crush'd with heel ill-natured fighting 


declare 


breeds, 


Against that ugly piece of calumny, 


Frill-rumpling elbows brew up many a 


Which calls them Highland pebble-stones 


bother. 


not worth a fly. 


And fists in the short ribs keep up the yell 




and pother. 


LXXXIV 




* Still " Bellanaine ! " they shouted, while 


LXXXVII 


we glide 


' A Poet, mounted on the Court-Clown's 


'Slant to a light Ionic portico, 


back, 


The city's delicacy, and the pride 


Rode to the Princess swift with spurring 


Of our Imperial Basilic; a row 


heels, 


Of lords and ladies, on each hand, make 


And close into her face, with rhyming 


show 


clack. 


Submissive of knee-bent obeisance, 


Began a Prothalamion ; — she reels, 


All down the steps; and, as we enter'd, lo ! 


She falls, she faints ! — while laughter 


The strangest sight — the most unlook'd- 


peals 


for chance — 


Over her woman's weakness. " Where ! " 


All things turn'd topsy-turvy in a devil's 


cried I, 


dance. 


" Where is his Majesty ? " No person 


LXXXV 


feels 


' 'Stead of his anxious Majesty and court 


Inclined to answer; wherefore instantly 


At the open doors, with wide saluting 


I plunged into the crowd to find him or 


eyes, 


to die. 



232 



THE LAST SONNET 



LXXXVIII 
* Jostling my way I gain'd the stairs, and 

ran 
To the first landing, where, incredible ! 
I met, far gone in liquor, that old man. 

That vile impostor Hum, ' 

So far so well, — 
For we have proved the Mago never fell 
Down stairs on Crafticanto's evidence; 
And therefore duly shall proceed to tell, 
Plain in our own original mood and 
tense, 
The sequel of this day, though labour 't is 
immense ! 



THE LAST SONNET 

On his way to Italy as his last chance of life, 
the vessel which bore Keats had been beating 
about the English Channel for a fortnight, 
when an opportunity was given for landing for 
a brief respite on the Dorsetshire coast. ' The 
bright beauty of the day,' says Lord Hough- 
ton, Keats's biographer, ' and the scene revived 



the poet's drooping heart, and the inspiration 
remained with him for some time even after 
his return to the ship. It was then that he 
composed that sonnet of solemn tenderness.' 
The date of the poem would thus be Septem- 
ber or October, 1820. 

Bright star, would I were steadfast as 
thou art ! 
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the 
night, 
And watching, with eternal lids apart. 

Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, 
The moving waters at their priestlike task 
Of pure ablution round earth's human 
shores 
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask 
Of snow upon the mountains and the 
moors : 
No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, 
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening 
breast. 
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell. 

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest. 
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, 
And so live ever — or else swoon to death. 



SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 



The collection -which follows is not intended 
to be taken exactly as containing the leavings 
of Keats's genius ; there J?xe verses in the pre- 
vious groups which might be placed here, if 
the intention was to make a marked division 
between his well-defined poetry and his experi- 
ments and mere scintillations ; doubtless, too. 



on any such principle it would be just to take 
back into the respectability of larger type some 
of the lines here included. But it seemed 
wise to put into a subordinate group the poet's 
fragmentary and posthumous poems, and those 
which were plainly the mere playthings of his 
muse. 



I. HYPERION: A VISION 

Contributed by Lord Houghton to the third 
volume of the Bibliographical and Historical 
Miscellanies of the Philobiblion Society, 1856- 
1857. Lord Houghton afterward included it 
in a new edition of The Life and Letters of 
John Keats, 1867. He also printed it in the 
Aldine edition of 1876, and always regarded it 
as an early version of the poem. But Mr. Col- 
vin quotes from Brown's MS. : ' In the even- 
ings [of November and December, 1819] at his 
own desire, he occupied a separate apartment, 
and was deeply engaged in remodeling the frag- 
ment of Hyperion into the form of a Vision.' 
This attempt may well have added to Keats's 
reluctance to permit the fragmentary Hyperion 
to appear in the 1820 volume. For a full dis- 
cussion of the question see the Appendix in 
John Keats by Sidney Colvin. 



Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they 

weave 
A paradise for a sect ; the savage, too, 
From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleep 
Guesses at heaven ; pity these have not 
Trac'd upon vellum or wild Indian leaf 
The shadows of melodious utterance, 
But bare of laurel they live, dream, and die ; 
For Poesy alone can tell her dreams, — 
With the fine spell of words alone can save 
Imagination from the sable chain lo 

And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say, 
'Thou art no Poet — may'st not tell thy 

dreams ' ? 
Since every man whose soul is not a clod 



Hath visions and would speak, if he had loved. 
And been well nurtured in his mother tongue. 
Whether the dream now purpos'd to rehearse 
Be poet's or fanatic's will be known 
When this warm scribe, my hand, is in the 
grave. 

Methought I stood where trees of every clime. 
Palm, myrtle, oak, and sycamore, and beech, 20 
With plantane and spice-blossoms, made a 

screen. 
In neighbourhood of fountains (by the noise 
Soft-showering in mine ears), and (by the touch 
Of scent) not far from roses. Twining round 
I saw an arbour with a drooping roof 
Of trellis vines, and bells, and larger blooms. 
Like floral censers, swinging light in air ; 
Before its wreathed doorway, on a mound 
Of moss, was spread a feast of summer fruits. 
Which, nearer seen, seem'd refuse of a meal 30 
By angel tasted or our Mother Eve ; 
For empty shells were scatter'd on the grass. 
And grapestalks but half-bare, and remnants 

more 
Sweet-smelling, whose pure kinds I could not 

know. 
Still was more plenty than the fabled horn 
Thrice emptied could pour forth at banqueting. 
For Proserpine return'd to her own fields. 
Where the white heifers low. And appetite. 
More yearning than on earth I ever felt. 
Growing within, I ate deliciously, — 40 

And, after not long, thirsted ; for thereby 
Stood a cool vessel of transparent juice 
Sipp'd by the wander'd bee, the which I took. 
And pledging all the mortals of the world. 
And all the dead whose names are in our lips, 
Drank. That full draught is parent of my 

theme. 



234 



SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 



No Asian poppy nor elixir fine 
Of the soon-fadinor, jealous Caliphat, 
No poison gender'd in close monkish cell, 
To thin the scarlet conclave of old men, 50 

Could so have rapt unwilling life away. 
Among the fragrant husks and berries crush'd 
Upon the grass, I struggled hard against 
The domineering potion, but in vain. 
The cloudy swoon came on, and down I sank, 
Like a Silenus on an antique vase. 
How long I slumber'd 't is a chance to guess. 
When sense of life return'd, I started up 
As if with wings, but the fair trees were gone. 
The mossy mound and arbour were no more : 60 
I look'd around upon the curved sides 
Of an old sanctuary, with roof august, 
Builded so high, it seem'd that filmed clouds 
Might spread beneath as o'er the stars of hea- 
ven. 
So old the place was, I remember'd none 
The like upon the earth : what I had seen 
Of grey cathedrals, buttress'd walls, rent tow- 
ers, 
The superannuations of sunk realms, 
Or Nature's rocks toil'd hard in waves and 

winds, 
Seem'd but the faulture of decrepit things 70 
To that eternal domed monument. 
Upon the marble at my feet there lay 
Store of strange vessels and large draperies, 
Which needs had been of dyed asbestos wove, 
Or in that place the moth could not corrupt, 
So white the linen, so, in some, distinct 
Ran imageries from a sombre loom. 
All in a mingled heap confus'd there lay 
Robes, golden tongs, censer and chafing-dish. 
Girdles, and chains, and holy jewelries. 80 

Turning from these with awe, once more I 

raised 
My eyes to fathom the space every way : 
The embossed roof, the silent massy range 
Of columns north and south, ending in mist 
Of nothing ; then to eastward, where black 

gates 
Were shut against the sunrise evermore ; 
Then to the west I look'd, and saw far off 
An image, huge of feature as a cloud. 
At level of whose feet an altar slept, 
To be approach'd on either side by steps 90 

And marble balustrade, and patient travail 
To count with toil the innumerable degrees. 
Toward the altar sober-pac'd I went, 
Repressing haste as too unholy there ; 
And, coming nearer, saw beside the shrine 
One ministering ; and there arose a flame 
When in raid-day the sickening east-wind 



Shifts sudden to the south, the small warm 

rain 
Melts out the frozen incense from all flowers, 
And fills the air with so much pleasant health 100 
That even the dying man forgets his shroud ; — 
Even so that lofty sacrificial fire. 
Sending forth Maian incense, spread around 
Forgetf ulness of everything but bliss, 
And clouded all the altar with soft smoke ; 
From whose white fragrant curtains thus I 

heard 
Language pronoune'd : ' If tliou canst not as- 
cend 
These steps, die on that marble where thou 

art. 
Thy flesh, near cousin to the common dust, 
Will parch for lack of nutriment ; thy bones 1 10 
WiU wither in few years, and vanish so 
That not the quickest eye could find a grain 
Of what thou now art on that pavement cold. 
The sands of thy short life are spent this 

hour, 
And no hand in the universe can turn 
Thy hourglass, if these gummed leaves be burnt 
Ere thou canst mount up these immortal steps.' 
I heard, I look'd : two senses both at once. 
So fine, so subtle, felt the tyranny 
Of that fierce threat and the hard task pro- 
posed. 120 
Prodigious seem'd the toil ; the leaves were yet 
Burning, when suddenly a palsied chill 
Struck from the paved level up my limbs. 
And was ascending quick to put cold grasp 
Upon those streams that pulse beside the throat, 
I shriek'd, and the sharp anguish of my shriek 
Stung my own ears ; I strove hard to escape 
The numbness, strove to gain the lowest step. 
Slow, heavy, deadly was my pace : the cold 
Grew stifling, suffocating at the heart ; 130 
And when I clasp 'd my hands I felt them not. 
One minute before death my ic'd foot touch'd 
The lowest stair ; and, as it touch'd, life seem'd 
To pour in at the toes ; I mounted up 
As once fair angels on a ladder flew 
From the green turf to heaven. ' Holy Power,' 
Cried I, approaching near the horned shrine, 
' Wliat am I that should so be saved from 

death ? 
What am I that another death come not 
To choke my utterance, sacrilegious, here ? ' 140 
Then said the veiled shadow : ' Thou hast felt 
What 't is to die and live again before 
Thy fated hour ; that thou hadst power to do 

so 
Is thine own safety ; thou hast dated on 
Thy doom.' ' High Prophetess,' said I, ' purge 
off, 



HYPERION: A VISION 



235 



Benign, if so it please thee, ray mind's film.' 
' None can usurp this height,' return'd that 

shade, 
' But those to whom the miseries of the world 
Are misery, and will not let them rest. 
All else who find a haven in the world, 150 

Where they may thoughtless sleep away their 

days, 
K by a chance into this fane they come, 
Rot on the pavement where thou rottedst half.' 
' Are there not thousands in the world,' said I, 
Encouraged by the sooth voice of the shade, 
' Who love their fellows even to the death. 
Who feel the giant agony of the world, 
And more, like slaves to poor humanity, 
Labour for mortal good ? I sure should see 
Other men here, but I am here alone.' 160 

' Those whom thou spakest of are no visiona- 
ries,' 
Rejoin'd that voice ; ' they are no dreamers 

weak ; 
They seek no wonder but the human face, 
No music but a happy-noted voice : 
They come not here, they have no thought to 

come ; 
And thou art here, for thou art less than they. 
What benefit canst thou do, or all thy tribe. 
To the great world? Thou art a dreaming 

thing, 
A fever of thyself : think of the earth ; 
What bliss, even in hope, is there for thee ? 170 
What haven ? every creature hath its home, 
Every sole man hath days of joy and pain. 
Whether his labours be sublime or low — 
The pain alone, the joy alone, distinct : 
Only the dreamer venoms all his days, 
Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve. 
Therefore, that happiness be somewhat shared, 
Such things as thou art are admitted oft 
Into like gardens thou didst pass erewhile. 
And suffer'd in these temples : for that cause 180 
Thou standest safe beneath this statue's knees.' 

' That I am favour'd for unworthiness. 
By such propitious parley medicined 
In sickness not ignoble, I rejoice, 
Aye, and could weep for love of such award.' 
So answer'd I, continuing, ' If it please, 
Majestic shadow, tell me where I am. 
Whose altar this, for whom this incense curls ; 
What image this whose face I cannot see 
For the broad marble knees ; and who thou 

art, 190 

Of accent feminine so courteous ? ' 

Then the tall shade, in drooping linen veil'd, 
Spoke out, so much more earnest, that her 
breath 



Stirr'd the thin folds of gauze that drooping 

hung 
About a golden censer from her hand 
Pendent ; and by her voice I knew she shed 
Long-treasured tears. ' This temple, sad and 

lone, 
Is all spar'd from the thunder of a war 
Foughten long since by giant hierarchy 
Against rebellion : this old image here, 200 

Whose carved features wrinkled as he fell. 
Is Saturn's ; I, Moneta, left supreme, 
Sole goddess of this desolation.' 
I had no words to answer, for my tongue, 
Useless, could find about its roofed home 
No syllable of a fit majesty 
To make rejoinder to Moneta's mourn : 
There was a silence, while the altar's blaze 
Was fainting for sweet food. I look'd thereon. 
And on the paved floor, where nigh were piled 
Faggots of cinnamon, and many heaps 211 

Of other crisped spicewood : then again 
I look'd upon the altar, and its horns 
Whiten'd with ashes, and its languorous flame, 
And then upon the offerings again ; 
And so, by turns, till sad Moneta cried : 
' The sacrifice Ls done, but not the less 
Will I be kind to thee for thy good will. 
My power, which to me is still a curse. 
Shall be to thee a wonder ; for the scenes 220 
Still swooning vivid through my globed brain, 
With an eleetral changing misery, 
Thou shalt with these dull mortal eyes behold 
Free from all pain, if wonder pain thee not.' 
As near as an immortal's sphered words 
Could to a mother's soften were these last : 
And yet I had a terror of her robes. 
And chiefly of the veils that from her brow 
Hung pale, and curtain'd her in mysteries. 
That made my heart too small to hold its 

blood. 230 

This saw that Goddess, and with sacred hand 
Parted the veils. Then saw I a wan face, 
Not pin'd by human sorrows, but bright- 

blanch'd 
By an immortal sickness which kills not ; 
It works a constant change, which happy death 
Can put no end to ; deathwards progressing 
To no death was that visage ; it had past 
The lily and the snow ; and beyond these 
I must not think now, though I saw that face. 
But for her eyes I should have fled away ; 240 
They held me back with a benignant light, 
Soft, mitigated by divinest lids 
Half-clos'd, and visionless entire they seem'd 
Of all external things ; they saw me not. 
But in blank splendour beam'd, like the mild 

moon. 



236 



SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 



Who comforts those she sees not, who knows 

not 
What eyes are upward cast. As I had found 
A grain of gold upon a mountain's side, 
And, twing'd with avarice, strain'd out my 

eyes 
To search its sullen entrails rich with ore, 25° 
So, at the view of sad Moneta's brow, 
I ask'd to see what things the hollow brow 
Behind environ'd : what high tragedy 
In the dark secret chambers of her skull 
Was acting, that could give so dread a stress 
To her cold lips, and fill with such a light 
Her planetary eyes, and touch her voice 
With such a sorrow ? ' Khade of Memory ! ' 
Cried I, with act adorant at her feet, 
' By all the gloom hung round thy fallen 

house, 260 

By this last temple, by the golden age, 
By great Apollo, thy dear foster-child. 
And by thyself, forlorn divinity. 
The pale Omega of a wither'd race, 
Let me behold, according as thou saidst. 
What in thy brain so ferments to and fro ! ' 
No sooner had this conjuration past 
My devout lips, than side by side we stood 
(Like a stunt bramble by a solemn pine) 
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale 270 

Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn. 
Far from the fiery noon and eve's one star. 
Onward I look'd beneath the gloomy boughs. 
And saw what first I thought an image huge. 
Like to the image pedestall'd so high 
In Saturn's temple ; then Moneta's voice 
Came brief upon mine ear. ' So Saturn sat 
When he had lost his realms ; ' whereon there 

grew 
A power within me of enormous ken 
To see as a god sees, and take the depth 280 
Of things as nimbly as the outward eye 
Can size and shape pervade. The lofty theme 
Of those few words hung vast before my mind 
With half-unravell'd web. I sat myself 
Upon an eagle's watch, that I might see. 
And seeing ne'er forget. No stir of life 
Was in this shrouded vale, — not so much air 
As in the zoning of a summer's day 
Robs not one light seed from the f eather'd grass 
But where the dead leaf fell there did it rest. 
A stream went noiseless by, still deaden'd more 
By reason of the fallen divinity 292 

Spreading more shade ; the Naiad 'mid her 

reeds 
Prest her cold finger closer to her lips. 

Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went 
No further than to where old Saturn's feet 



Had rested, and there slept how long a sleep ! 
Degraded, cold, upon the sodden ground 
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, 
Unsceptred, and his realmless eyes were closed ; 
While his bowed head seem'd listening to the 
Earth, 301 

His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. 

It seem'd no force could wake him from his 

place ; 
But there came one who, with a kindred hand, 
Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low 
With reverence, though to one who knew it not. 
Then came the griev'd voice Mnemosyne, 
And griev'd I hearken'd. ' That divinity 
Whom thou saw'st step from yon forlomest 

wood, 309 

And with slow pace approach our fallen king, 
Is Thea, softest-natured of our brood.' 
I mark'd the Goddess, in fair statuary 
Surpassing wan Moneta by the head. 
And in her sorrow nearer woman's tears. 
There was a list'ning fear in her regard. 
As if calamity had but begun ; 
As if the venom' d cloud of evil days 
Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear 
Was with its stored thunder labouring up. 
One hand she press' d upon that aching spot 320 
Where beats the human heart, as if just there. 
Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain ; 
The other upon Saturn's bended neck 
She laid, and to the level of his ear 
Leaning, with parted lips some words she spoke 
In solemn tenour and deep organ-tone ; 
Some mourning words, which in our feeble 

tongue 
Would come in this like accenting ; how frail 
To that large utterance of the early gods ! 

' Saturn, look up ! and for what, poor lost 
king ? 330 

I have no comfort for thee ; no, not one ; 
I cannot say, wherefore thus sleepest thou ? 
For Heaven is parted from thee, and the Earth 
Knows thee not, so afflicted, for a god. 
The Ocean, too, with all its solemn noise. 
Has from thy sceptre pass'd ; and all the air 
Is emptied of thy hoary majesty. 
Thy thunder, captious at the new command, 
Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house ; 
And thy sharp lightning, in unpractis'd hands, 
Scourges and burns our once serene domain. 341 

' With such remorseless speed still come new 
woes. 
That unbelief has not a space to breathe. 
Saturn ! sleep on : me thoughtless, why should I 



HYPERION: A VISION 



237 



Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude ? 
Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes ? 
■ Saturn ! sleep on, while at thy feet I weep.' 

As when upon a tranced summer-night 
Forests, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, 
Dream, and so dream all night without a noise, 
Save from one gradual solitary gust 35» 

Swelling upon the silence, dying off. 
As if the ebbing air had but one wave. 
So came these words and went ; the while in 

tears 
She prest her fair large forehead to the earth. 
Just where her fallen hair might spread in 

curls, 
A soft and silken net for Saturn's feet. 
Long, long these two were postured motionless. 
Like sculpture builded-up upon the grave 
Of their own power. A long awful time 360 
I look'd upon them : still they were the same ; 
The frozen God still bending to the earth. 
And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet ; 
Moneta silent. Without stay or prop 
But my own weak mortality, I bore 
The load of this eternal quietude, 
The unchanging gloom and the three fixed 

shapes 
Ponderous upon my senses, a whole moon ; 
For by my burning brain I measured sure 
Her silver seasons shedded on the night, 37° 
And every day by day methought I grew 
More gaunt and ghostly. Oftentimes I pray'd 
Intense, that death would take me from the 

vale 
And all its burthens ; gasping with despair 
Of change, hour after hour I eurs'd myself. 
Until old Saturn rais'd his faded eyes. 
And look'd around and saw his kingdom gone. 
And all the gloom and sorrow of the place, 
And that fair kneeling Goddess at his feet. 

As the moist scent of flowers, and grass, and 
leaves 3S0 

FiUs forest-dells with a pervading air. 
Known to the woodland nostril, so the words 
Of Saturn fill'd the mossy glooms around. 
Even to the hollows of time-eaten oaks. 
And to the windings of the foxes' hole, 
With sad, low tones, while thus he spoke, and 

sent 
Strange moanings to the solitary Pan. 
' Moan, brethren, moan, for we are swallow'd 

"P 
And buried from all godlike exercise 
Of influence benign on planets pale, 39° 

And peaceful sway upon man's harvesting. 
And all those acts which Deity supreme 



Doth ease its heart of love in. Moan and wail ; 
Moan, brethren, moan ; for lo, the rebel spheres 
Spin round ; the stars their ancient courses 

keep ; 
Clouds still with shadowy moisture haunt the 

earth, 
Still suck their fill of light from sun and moon ; 
StLU buds the tree, and still the seashores mur- 
mur; 
There is no death in all the universe, 
No smell of death. — There shall be death. 
Moan, moan ; 400 

Moan, Cybele, moan ; for thy pernicious babes 
Have chang'd a god into an aching palsy. 
Moan, brethren, moan, for I have no strength 

left; 
Weak as the reed, weak, feeble as my voice. 
Oh ! Oh ! the pain, the pain of feebleness ; 
Moan, moan, for still I thaw ; or give me help, 
Throw down those imps, and give me victory. 
Let me hear other groans, and trumpets blown 
Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival. 
From the gold peaks of heaven's high-piled 
clouds ; 410 

Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir 
Of strings in hollow shells ; and there shall be 
Beautiful things made new, for the surprise 
Of the sky-children.' So he feebly ceased. 
With such a poor and sickly-sounding pause, 
Methought I heard some old man of the earth 
Bewailing earthly loss ; nor could my eyes 
And ears act with that unison of sense 
Which marries sweet sound with the grace of 

form, 
And dolorous accent from a tragic harp 420 

With lai-ge limb'd visions. More I scrutinized. 
Still fixt he sat beneath the sable trees. 
Whose arms spread straggling in wild serpent 

forms, 
With leaves all hush'd ; his awful presence 

there 
( Now all was silent) gave a deadly lie 
To what I erewhile heard : only his lips 
Trembled amid the white curls of his beard ; 
They told the truth, though round the snowy 

locks 
Hung nobly, as upon the face of heaven 
A mid-day fleece of clouds. Thea arose 430 
And stretcht her white arm through the hol- 
low dark. 
Pointing somewhither : whereat he too rose, 
Like a vast giant, seen by men at sea 
To grow pale from the waves at dull mid- 
night. 
They melted from my sight into the woods ; 
Ere I could turn, Moneta cried, ' These twain 
Are speeding to the families of grief. 



238 



SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 



Where, rooft in by black rocks, they waste in 



pain 
And darkness, for no hope.' And she spake 

on, 
As ye may read who can unwearied pass 44o 
Onward from the antechamber of this dream, 
Where, even at the open doors, awhUe 
I must delay, and glean ray memory 
Of her high phrase — perhaps no further dare. 



' Mortal, that thou may'st understand aright, 
I humanize my sayings to thine ear, 
Making comparisons of earthly things ; 
Or thou might'st better listen to the wind, 
Whose language is to thee a barren noise. 
Though it blows legend-laden thro' the trees. 
In melancholy realms big tears are shed. 
More sorrow like to this, and such like woe. 
Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe. 
The Titans fierce, self-hid or prison-bound, lo 
Groan for the old allegiance once more, 
Listening in their doom for Saturn's voice. 
But one of the whole eagle-brood still keeps 
His sovereignty, and rule, and majesty : 
Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire 
Still sits, still snuffs the incense teeming up 
From Man to the Sun's God — yet insecure. 
For as upon the earth dire prodigies 
Fright and perplex, so also shudders he ; 
Not at dog's howl or gloom-bird's hated screech, 
Or the familiar visiting of one 21 

Upon the first toll of his passing bell. 
Or prophesyiugs of the midnight lamp ; 
But horrors, portioned to a giant nerve, 
Make great Hyperion ache. His palace bright, 
Bastion'd with pyramids of shining gold, 
And touch'd with shade of bronzed obelisks. 
Glares a blood-red thro' all the thousand courts. 
Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries ; 
And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds 3° 

Flash angerly ; when he would taste the wreaths 
Of incense breath'd aloft from sacred hills. 
Instead of sweets, his ample palate takes 
Savour of poisonous brass and metals sick ; 
Wherefore when harbour'd in the sleepy West, 
After the full completion of fair day. 
For rest divine upon exalted couch. 
And slumber in the arms of melody. 
He paces through the pleasant hours of ease. 
With strides colossal, on from hall to hall, 4° 
While far within each aisle and deep recess 
His winged minions in close clusters stand 
Amaz'd, and full of fear; like anxious men, 
Who on a wide plain gather in sad troops. 



When earthquakes jar their battlements and 

towers. 
Even now where Saturn, rous'd from icy trance. 
Goes step for step with Thea from yon woods, 
Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear. 
Is sloping to the threshold of the West. 
Thither we tend.' Now in clear light I stood, 
ReUev'd from the dusk vale. Mnemosyne S' 
Was sitting on a square-edg'd pohsh'd stone. 
That in its lucid depths reflected pure 
Her priestess' garments. My quick eyes ran on 
From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault. 
Through bow'rs of fragrant and enwreathed 

light, 
And diamond-paved lustrous long arcades. 
Anon rush'd by the bright Hyperion ; 
His flaming robes stream 'd out beyond his heels, 
And gave a roar as if of earthy fire, 60 

That scar'd away the meek ethereal hours. 
And made their dove-wings tremble. On he 

flared. 

II. FRAGMENTS 

The three fragments that follow are pub- 
lished in Life, Letters and Literary Remains, 
without date. 



Where 's the Poet ? Show him ! show him. 
Muses nine ! that I may know him ! 
'Tis the man who witKa man 

Is an equal, be he King, 
Or poorest of the beggar-clan. 

Or any other wondrous thing 
A man may be 'twixt ape and Plato ; 

'T is the man who with a bird. 
Wren, or Eagle, finds his way to 

All its instincts ; he hath heard 
The Lion's roaring, and can tell 

What his horny throat expresseth, 
And to him the Tiger's yell 

Comes articulate and presseth 
On his ear like mother- tongue. 



MODERN LOVE 

And what is love ? It is a doll dress'd up 
For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle ; 
A thing of soft misnomers, so divine 
That silly youth doth think to make itself 
Divine by loving, and so goes on 
Yawning and doting a whole summer long, 
Till Miss's comb is made a pearl tiara. 



FRAGMENTS 



239 



And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots ; 
Then Cleopatra lives at number seven, 
And Antony resides in Brunswick Square. 
Fools ! if some passions high have warm'd the 

world, 
If Queens and Soldiers have play'd deep for 

hearts, 
It is no reason why such agonies 
Should be more common than the growth of 

weeds. 
Fools ! make me whole again that weighty 

pearl 
The Queen of Egypt melted, and I 'U say 
That ye may love in spite of beaver hats. 



FRAGMENT OF ' THE CASTLE BUILDER ' 

To-night I '11 have my friar — let me think 
About my room — I '11 have it in the pink ; 
It should be rich and sombre, and the moon, 
Just in its mid-life in the midst of June, 
Should look thro' four large windows and dis- 
play 
Clear, but for gold-fish vases in the way. 
Their glassy diamonding on Turkish floor ; 
The tapers keep aside, an hour and more, 
To see what else the moon alone can show ; 
While the night-breeze doth softly let us know 
My terrace is well bower'd with oranges. 
Upon the floor the dullest spirit sees 
A guitar-ribband and a lady's glove 
Beside a crumple-leaved tale of love ; 
A tambour-frame, with Venus sleeping there. 
All finish'd but some ringlets of her hair ; 
A viol, bow-strings torn, cross-wise upon 
A glorious folio of Anacreon ; 
A skull upon a mat of roses lying, 
Ink'd purple with a song concerning dying ; 
An hour-glass on the turn, amid the trails 
Of passion-flower ; — just in time there sails 
A cloud across the mioon, — the lights bring 

in! 
And see what more my phantasy can win. 
It is a gorgeous room, but somewhat sad ; 
The draperies are so, as tho' they had 
Been made for Cleopatra's winding-sheet ; 
And opposite the stedfast eye doth meet 
A spacious looking-glass, upon whose face. 
In letters raven-sombre, you may trace 
Old * Mene, Mene, Tekel Upharsin.' 
Greek busts and statuary have ever been 
Held, by the finest spirits, fitter far, 
Than vase grotesque and Siamesian jar ; 
Therefore 't is sure a want of Attic taste 



That I should rather love a Gothic waste 
Of eyesight on cinque-coloured potter's clay, 
Than on the marble fairness of old Greece. 
My table-coverlits of Jason's fleece 
And black Nuniidian sheep -wool should be 

wrought. 
Gold, black, and heavy, from the Lama brought. 
My ebon sofas shoiild delicious be 
With down from Leda's cygnet progeny. 
My pictures all Salvator's, save a few 
Of Titian's portraiture, and one, though new, 
Of Haydon's in its fresh magnificence. 
My wine — O good ! 't is here at my desire, 
And I must sit to supper with my friar. 



EXTRACTS FROM AN OPERA 

First given in it/V, Letters and Literary Re- 
mains, and there dated 1818. In that case, it is 
most likely that the verses formed a portion of 
some experiment going on to the autumn after 
Keats's return from his northern journey. 

O ! WERE I one of the Olympian twelve, 
Their godships should pass this into a law, — 
That -vhen a man doth set himself in toil 
After some beauty veiled far away, 
Each step he took should make his lady's 

hand 
More soft, more white, and her fair cheek more 

fair ; 
And for each briar-berry he might eat, 
A kiss should bud upon the tree of love. 
And pulp and ripen richer every hour, 
To melt away upon the traveller's lips. 



daisy's song 

The sun, with his great eye. 
Sees not so much as I ; 
And the moon, all silver-proud. 
Might as well be in a cloud. 

And O the spring — the spring ! 
I lead the life of a King ! 
Couch'd in the teeming grass, 
I spy each pretty lass. 

I look where no one dares, 
And I stare where no one stares. 
And when the night is nigh. 
Lambs bleat my lullaby. 



240 



SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 



folly's song 

When wedding fiddles are a-playing, 

Huzza for folly ! 
And when maidens go a-Maying, 

Huzza, etc. 
When a milk-pail is upset, 

Huzza, etc. 
And the clothes left in the wet, 

Huzza, etc. 
When the barrel 's set abroach, 

Huzza, etc. 
When Kate Eyebrow keeps a coach, 

Huzza, etc. 
When the pig is over-roasted. 

Huzza, etc. 
And the cheese is over-toasted. 

Huzza, etc. 
When Sir Snap is with his lawyer, 

Huzza, etc. 
And Miss Chip has kiss'd the sawyer ; 

Huzza, etc. 



O, I AM frighten'd with most hateful thoughts ! 
Perhaps her voice is not a nightingale's. 
Perhaps her teeth are not the fairest pearl ; 
Her eye-lashes may be, for aught I know. 
Not longer than the May-fly's small fan- 
horns ; 
There may not be one dimple on her hand ; 
And freckles many ; ah ! a careless nurse. 
In haste to teach the little thing to walk. 
May have erumpt up a pair of Dian's legs, 
And warpt the ivory of a Juno's neck. 



The stranger lighted from his steed. 
And ere he spake a word, 

He seiz'd my lady's lily hand, 
And kiss'd it all unheard. 

The stranger walk'd into the hall, 
And ere he spake a word. 

He kiss'd my lady's cherry lips, 
And kiss'd 'em all unheard. 

The stranger walk'd into the bower. 
But my lady first did go, — 

Ay hand in hand into the bower, 
Where my lord's roses blow. 

My lady's maid had a silken scarf. 
And a golden ring had she, 



And a kiss from the stranger, as off he went 
Again on his palfrey. 



Asleep ! O sleep a little while, white pearl ! 
And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee. 
And let me call Heaven's blessing on thine 

eyes. 
And let me breathe into the happy air, 
That doth enfold and touch thee all about, 
Vows of my slavery, my giving up, 
My sudden adoration, my great love ! 

III. FAMILIAR VERSES 

STANZAS TO MISS WYLIE 

These verses belong to 1816. It is not im- 
possible that like the valentine on p. 11, they 
were written for the use of George Keats. 

COME, Georgiana ! the rose is full blown. 
The riches of Flora are lavishly strown. 
The air is all softness, and crystal the streams ; 
The West is resplendently clothed in beams. 

come ! let us haste to the freshening shades, 
The quaintly carv'd seats, and the opening 

glades ; 
Where the faeries are chanting their evening 

hymns. 
And the last sun-beam the sylph lightly swims. 

And when thou art weary, I '11 find thee a bed 
Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head : 
And there Georgiana I '11 sit at thy feet, 
While my story of love I enraptur'd repeat. 

So fondly I '11 breathe, and so softly I '11 sigh, 
Thou wilt think that some amorous zephyr is 

nigh; 
Yet no — as I breathe I will press thy fair knee. 
And then thou wilt know that the sigh comes 

from me. 

Ah ! whv, dearest girl, should we lose all these 

blisses ? 
That mortal 's a fool who such happiness misses : 
So smile acquiescence, and give me thy hand. 
With love-looking eyes, and with voice sweetly 

bland. 

EPISTLE TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 

' My dear Reynolds,' writes Keats from 
Teignmouth, March 25, 1818, ' In hopes of 
cheering you through a minute or two, I was 



FAMILIAR VERSES 



241 



determined, will he, nill he, to send you some 
lines, so you will excuse the unconnected sub- 
ject and careless verse. You know, I am sure, 
Claude's Enchanted Castle, and I wish you may 
be pleased with my remembrance of it.' 

Deak Reynolds ! As last night I lay in bed, 
There came before my eyes that wonted thread 
Of shapes, and shadows, and remembrances. 
That every other minute vex and please : 
Things all disjointed come from north and 

south, — 
Two Witch's eyes above a Cherub's mouth, 
Voltaire with casque and shield and habergeon, 
And Alexander with his nightcap on ; 
Old Socrates a-tying his cravat. 
And Hazlitt playing with Miss Edgeworth's 

cat ; 10 

And Junius Brutus, pretty well so so. 
Making the best of 's way towards Soho. 

Few are there who escape these visitings, — 
Perhaps one or two whose lives have patent 

wing^. 
And thro' whose curtains peeps no hellish nose. 
No wild-boar tushes, and no Mermaid's toes ; 
But flowers bursting out with lusty pride, 
And young -^oUan harps personify'd ; 
Some Titian colours touch'd into real life, — 
The sacrifice goes on ; the pontiff knife 20 

Gleams in the Sun, the milk-white heifer lows. 
The pipes go shrilly, the libation flows : 
A white sail shows above the green-head cliff. 
Moves round the point, and throws her anchor 

stiff; 
The mariners join hymn with those on land. 

You know the Enchanted Castle, — it doth 
stand 
Upon a rock, on the border of a Lake, 
Nested in trees, which all do seem to shake 
From some old magic-like Urganda's sword. 
O Phoebus ! that I had thy sacred word 3° 

To show this Castle, in fair dreaming wise. 
Unto my friend, while sick and ill he lies ! 

You know it well enough, where it doth seem 
A mossy place, a Merlin's Hall, a dream ; 
You know the clear Lake, and the little Isles, 
The mountains blue, and cold near neighbour 

rills. 
All which elsewhere are but half animate ; 
There do they look alive to love and hate, 
To smiles and frowns ; they seem a lifted 

mound 
Above some giant, pulsing underground. 40 



Part of the building was a chosen See, 
Built by a banish'd Santon of Chaldee ; 
The other part, two thousand years from him. 
Was buUt by Cuthbert de Saint Aldebrim ; 
Then there 's a little wing, far from the Sun, 
Built by a Lapland Witch turn'd maudlin Nun ; 
And many other juts of aged stone 
Founded with many a mason-devil's groan. 

The doors all look as if they op'd themselves : 
The windows as if latcli'd by Fays and Elves, 5° 
And from them comes a silver flash of light. 
As from the westward of a Summer's night; 
Or like a beauteous woman's large blue eyes 
Gone mad through olden songs and poesies. 

See ! what is coming from the distance dim ! 
A golden Galley all in silken trim ! 
Three rows of oars are lightening, moment 

whiles 
Into the verd'rous bosoms of those isles ; 
Towards the shade, under the Castle wall. 
It comes in silence, — now 't is hidden all. 60 
The Clarion soimds, and from a Postern-gate 
An echo of sweet music doth create 
A fear in the poor Herdsman who doth bring 
His beasts to trouble the enchanted spring, — 
He tells of the sweet music, and the spot, 
To all his friends, and they believe him not. 

O that our dreamings all, of sleep or wake. 
Would all their colours from the sunset take : 
From something of material sublime, 69 

Rather than shadow our own soul's day-time 
In the dark void of night. For in the world 
We jostle, — but my flag is not unf url'd 
On the Admiral-staff, — and so philosophise 
I dare not yet ! O, never will the prize. 
High reason, and the love of good and ill. 
Be my award ! Things cannot to the will 
Be settled, but they tease us out of thought ; 
Or is it imagination brought 
Beyond its proper bound, yet still confin'd, 
Lost in a sort of Purgatory blind, 80 

Cannot refer to any standard law 
Of either earth or heaven ? It is a flaw 
In happiness, to see beyond our bourn. — 
It forces us in summer skies to mourn, 
It spoils the singing of the Nightingale. 

Dear Reynolds ! I have a mysterious tale. 
And cannot speak it : the first page I read 
Upon a Lampit rock of green sea-weed 
Among the breakers ; 't was a quiet eve, 
The rocks were silent, the wide sea did weave 
An untumultuous fringe of silver foam 9' 

Along the flat brown sand ; I was at home 



242 



SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 



And should have been most happy, — but I saw 


As doth a mother wild, 


Too far into the sea, where every maw 


When her young infant child 


The greater on the less feeds evermore. — 


Is in an eagle's claws — 


But I saw too distinct into the core 


And is not this the cause 


Of an eternal fierce destruction, 


Of madness ? — God of Song, 


And so from happiness I far was gone. 


Thou bearest me along 


Still am I sick of it, and tho' to-day. 


Through sights 1 scarce can bear : 


I 've gather'd young spring-leaves, and flowers 


let me, let me share 


gay '°° 


With the hot lyre and thee, , 


Of periwinkle and wild strawberry, 


The staid Philosophy. 


Still do I that most fierce destruction see, — 


Temper my lonely hours, 


The Shark at savage prey, — the Hawk at 


And let me see thy bowers 


pounce, — 


More unalarm'd ! 


The gentle Robin, like a Pard or Ounce, 




Ravening a worm, — Away, ye horrid moods ! 


AT TEIGNMOUTH 


Moods of one's mind ! You know I hate them 




well. 


Sent as part of a letter to Haydon, written 


You know I 'd sooner be a clapping Bell 


from Teignmouth, March 21, 1818. 'I have 


To some Kamschatkan Missionary Church, 


enjoyed the most delightful walks these three 


Than with these horrid moods be left i' the 


fine days beautiful enough to make me content 


lurch. 


here all the summer could I stay.' 


A DRAUGHT OF SUNSHINE 


Here all the summer could I stay, 




For there 's Bishop's teign 


Sent in a letter to Reynolds, dated January 


And King's teign 


31, 1818. ' I cannot write in prose,' says Keats ; 


And Coomb at the clear teign head — 


'it is a sunshiny day and I cannot, so here 


Where close by the stream 


goes.' 


You may have your cream 




All spread upon barley bread. 


Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port, 




Away with old Hock and Madeira, 


There 's arch Brook 


Too earthly ye are for mj' sport ; 


And there 's larch Brook 


There 's a beverage brighter and clearer. 


Both turning many a mill ; 


Instead of a pitiful rummer. 


And cooling the drouth 


My wine overbrims a whole summer ; 


Of the salmon's mouth 


My bowl is the sky. 


And fattening his silver giU. 


And I drink at my eye, 




Till I feel in the brain 


There is Wild wood, 


A Delphian pain — 


A Mild hood 


Then follow, my Caius ! then follow : 


To the sheep on the lea o' the down, 


On the green of the hill 


Where the golden furze 


We will drink our fill 


With its green, thin spurs, 


Of golden sunshine. 


Doth catch at the maiden's gown. 


Till our brains intertwine 




With the glory and grace of Apollo ! 


There is Newton marsh 


God of the Meridian, 


With its spear grass harsh — 


And of the East and West, 


A pleasant summer level 


To thee my soul is flown, 


Where the maidens sweet 


And my body is earthward press'd. — 


Of the Market Street, 


It is an awful mission, 


Do meet in the dusk to revel. 


A terrible division ; 




And leaves a gulf austere 


There 's the Barton rich 


To be fill'd with worldly fear. 


With dyke and ditch 


Aye, when the soul is fled 


And hedge for the thrush to live in ; 


To high above our head. 


And the hollow tree 


Affrighted do we gaze 


For the buzzing bee. 


After its airy maze. 


And a bank for the wasp to hive in. 



FAMILIAR VERSES 



243 



And O, and O 

The daisies blow 
And the primroses are waken'd, 

And the violets white 

Sit in silver plight, 
And the green bud 's as long as the spike end. 

Then who would go 

Into dark Soho, 
And chatter with dack'd hair'd critics, 

When he can stay 

For the new-mown hay. 
And startle the dappled Prickets ? 

THE DEVON MAID 

Immediately after the preceding', Keats 
adds : ' I know not if this rhyming fit has done 
anything — it will be safe with you if worthy 
to put among my Lyrics. Here 's some dog- 
grel for you,' and these four stanzas follow. 

Where be ye going, you Devon Maid ? 

And what have ye there in the Basket ? 
Ye tight little fairy just fresh from the dairy, 

Will ye give me some cream if I ask it ? 

I love your Meads, and I love your flowers, 

And I love your junkets mainly. 
But 'hind the door I love kissing more, 

look not so disdainly. 

I love your hills, and I love your dales, 
. And I love your flocks a-bleating ^ 
But O, on the heather to lie together. 
With both our hearts a-beating ! 

I '11 put your Basket all safe in a nook. 
Your shawl I hang up on the willow. 

And we will sigh in the daisy's eye 
And kiss on a grass green pillow. 



fxEORGIANA AUGUSTA KEATS 

This is dated 'Foot of Helvellyn, June 27,' 
1818, and was sent, as something overlooked, 
to his brother and sister. September 18, 1819. 
' I wrote it in a great hurry which you will 
see. Indeed I would not copy it if I thought 
it would ever be seen by any but yourselves.' 

GrvE me your patience, sister, while I frame 
Exact in capitals your golden name ; 
Or sue the fair Apollo and he will 
Rouse from his heavy slumber and instill 



Great love in me for thee and Poesy. 
Imagine not that greatest mastery 
And kingdom over all the Realms of verse, 
Nears more to heaven in aught, than when we 

nurse 
And surety give to love and Brotherhood. 

Anthropophagi in Othello's mood ; 
Ulysses storm'd and his enchanted belt 
Glow with the Muse, but they are never felt 
Unbosom'd so and so eternal made, 
Such tender incense in their laurel shade 
To all the regent sisters of the Nine 
As this poor offering to you, sister mine. 

Kind sister I ay, this third name says you are ; 
Enchanted has it been the Lord knows where ; 
And may it taste to you like good old wine, 
Take you to real happiness and give 
Sons, daughters and a home like honied hive. 



MEG MERRILIES 

Sent in a letter to Fanny Keats, written from 
Auchencairn, July 2, 1818. 'We are in the 
midst of Meg Merrilies country of whom I sup- 
pose you have heard.' Fanny Keats was a 
girl of fifteen at this time. 

Old Meg she was a Gipsy, 

And liv'd uiwn the Moors: 
Her bed it was the brown heath turf. 

And her house was out of doors. 

Her apples were swart blackben-ies. 

Her currants pods o' broom ; 
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose. 

Her book a churchyard tomb. 

Her Brothers were the craggy hills. 

Her Sisters larchen trees — 
Alone with her great family 

She liv'd as she did please. 

No breakfast had she many a morn. 

No dinner many a noon, 
And 'stead of supper she would stare 

Full hard against the Moon. 

BTit every morn of woodbine fresh 

She made her garlanding. 
And every night the dark glen Yew 

She wove, and she would sing. 

And with her fingers old and brown 
She plaited Mats o' Rushes, 



244 



SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 



And gave them to the Cottagers 


And away 


She met among the Bushes, 


In a Pother 




He ran 


Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen 


To the mountains, 


And tall as Amazon : 


And fountains 


An old red blanket cloak she wore ; 


And ghostes, 


A chip hat had she on. 


And Postes, 


God rest her aged bones somewhere — 


And witches, 


She died full long agone ! 


And ditches, 




And wrote 




In his coat, 


A SONG ABOUT MYSELF 


When the weather 




Was cool. 


' I have so many interruptions,' writes Keats 


Fear of gout, 


to his sister Fanny from Kircudbright, July 2, 


And without 



1818, ' that I cannot manage to fill a Letter 
in one day — since I scribbled the song [Meg 
Merrilies] we have walked through a beautiful 
country to Kircudbright — at which place I 
will write you a song about myself.' 

There was a naughty Boy, 

A naughty boy was he. 

He would not stop at home. 

He could not quiet be — 

He took 

In his Knapsack 

A Book 

Full of vowels ; 

And a shirt 

With some towels — 

A slight cap 

For night cap — 

A hair brush, 

Comb ditto. 

New Stockings, 

For old ones 

Would split O ! 

This Knapsack, 

Tight at 's back. 

He rivetted close 
And foUow'd his Nose 

To the North, 

To the North, 
And follow'd his nose 

To the North. 

There was a naughty boy 

And a naughty boy was he, 
For nothing would he do 
But scribble poetry — 

He took 

An inkstand 

In his hand, 

And a Pen 

Big as ten 

In the other, 



When the weather 

Was Warm — 

Och the charm 

When we choose 
To follow one's nose 

To the north, 

To the north, 
To follow one's nose 
To the north. 

There was a naughty boy 

And a naughty boy was he. 
He kept little fishes 
In washing tubs three 

In spite 

Of the might 

Of the Maid, 

Nor afraid 

Of his Granny — good — 

He often would, 

Hurly burly, 

Get up early. 

And go 

By hook or crook 

To the brook. 

And bring home 

Miller's thumb. 

Tittlebat 

Not over fat. 

Minnows small 

As the stall 

Of a glove. 

Not above 

The size 

Of a nice 

Little Baby's 

Little fingers — 

O. he made, 

'T was his trade. 
Of Fish a pretty Kettle 

A Kettle — 

A Kettle 



FAMILIAR VERSES 



245 



Of Fish, a pretty Kettle, 


I saw her wrappit in her hood 


A Kettle ! 


Frae wind and raining — 




Her cheek was flush wi' timid blood 


There was a naughty Boy, 


Twixt growth and waning — 


And a naughty Boy was he, 


She turn'd her dazed eyes full oft 


He ran away to Scotland 


For there her Brithers 


The people for to see — 


Came riding with her Bridegroom soft 


Then he found 


And mony ithers. 


That the ground 


Young Tam came up and eyed me quick 


Was as hard, 


With reddened cheek — 


That a yard 


Braw Tom was daffed like a chick — 


Was as long, 


He couldna speak — 


That a song 


Ah, Marie, tliey are all gane hame 


Was as merry, 


Through blustering weather 


That a cherry 


An' every heart is full on flame 


Was as red — 


An' light as feather. 


That lead 


Ah ! Marie, they are all gone hame 


Was as weighty, 


Frae happy wadding, 


That fourscore 


Whilst I — Ah is it not a shame ? 


Was as eighty, 


Sad tears am shedding. 


That a door 




Was as wooden 


THE GADFLY 


As in England — 




So he stood in his shoes 


Inclosed in a letter to Tom Keats, July 17, 


And he wonder'd, 


1818. 


He wonder'd, 


All gentle folks who owe a grudge 


He stood in his shoes 


To any living thing 


And he wonder'd. 


Open your ears and stay your t(r)udge 




Whilst I in dudgeon sing. 


TO THOMAS KEATS 


The Gadfly he hath stung me sore — 


Belantbee (for Ballantrae) July 10 [1818.] 


may he ne'er sting you ! 




But we have many a horrid bore, — 


Ah ! ken ye what I met the day 


He may sting black and blue. 


Out cure the Mountains 




A coming down by craggies gray 


Has any here an old gray Mare 


An mossie fountains — 


With three legs all her store, 


Ah goud-hair'd Marie yeve I pray 


put it to her Buttocks bare 


Ane minute's guessing — 


And straight she '11 run on four. 


For that I met upon the way 




Is past expressing. 


Has any here a Lawyer suit 


As I stood where a rocky brig 


Of 1743, 


A torrent crosses 


Take Lawyer's nose and put it to 't 


I spied upon a misty rig 


And you the end will see. 


A troup 0' Horses — 




And as they trotted down the glen 


Is there a Man in Parliament 


I sped to meet them 


Dum(bjfounder'd in his speech, 


To see if I might know the Men 


let his neighbour make a rent 


To stop and greet them. 


And put one in his breech. 


First Willie on his sleek mare came 




At canting gallop 


Lowther how much better thou 


His long hair rustled like a flame 


Hadst figur'd t' other day 


On board a shallop, 


When to the folks thou mad'st a bow 


Then came his brother Rab and then 


And hadst no more to say. 


Young Peggy's Mither 




And Peggy too — adown the glen 


If lucky Gadfly had but ta'en 


They went togither — 


His seat . . . 



246 



SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 



And put thee to a little pain 
To save thee from a worse. 

Better than Southey it had been, 

Better than Mr. D 

Better than Wordsworth, too, I ween, 

Better than Mr. V . 

Forgive me, pray, good ])eople all. 

For deviating so — 
In spirit sure I had a call — 

And now I on will go. 

Has any here a daughter fair 

Too fond of reading novels, 
Too apt to fall in love with care 

And charming Mister Lovels, 

put a Gadfly to that thing 
She keeps so white and pert — 

1 mean the finger for the ring, 
And it will breed a wort. 

Has any here a pious spouse 

Who seven times a day 
Scolds as King David pray'd, to chouse 

And have her holy way — 

let a Gadfly's little sting 
Persuade her sacred tongue 

That noises are a common thing, 
But that her bell has rung. 

And as this is the summum bo- 
num of all conquering, 

1 leave ' withouten wordes mo ' 
The Gadfly's little sting. 



ON HE.\RING THE BAG-PIPE AND SEEING 

'the stranger' played at INVERARY 

'On entering Inverary,' Keats writes to his 
brother Tom, July 18, 1818, ' we saw a Play 
Bill. Brown was knocked up from new shoes 
— so I went to the Barn alone where I saw the 
Stranger accompanied by a Bag-pipe. There 
they went on about interesting creaters and 
human nater till the Curtain fell and then 
came the Bag-pipe. When Mrs. Haller fainted 
down went the Curtain and out came the Bag- 
pipe — at the heartrending, shoemending recon- 
ciliation the Piper blew amain. I never read 
or saw this play before ; not the Bag-pipe nor 
the wretched players themselves were little in 



comparison with it — thank heaven it has been 
scoffed at lately almost to a fashion.' 

Of late two dainties were before me plac'd 
Sweet, holy, pure, sacred and innocent, 
From the ninth sphere to me benignly sent 
That Gods might know my own particular 

taste : 
First the soft Bag-pipe mourn' d with zealous 
haste, 
The Stranger next with head on bosom bent 
Sigh'd ; rueful again the piteous Bag-pipe 
went. 
Again the Stranger sighings fresh did waste. 
O Bag-pipe, thou didst steal my heart away — 
Stranger, thou my nerves from Pipe didst 
charm — 
Bag-pipe thou didst re-assert thy sway — 

Again thou, Stranger, gav'st me fresh alarm — 
Alas ! I could not choose. Ah ! my poor heart 
Mum chance art thou with both oblig'd to part. 



LINES WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS AFTER 
A VISIT TO BURNS'S COUNTRY 

In a letter to Benjamin Bailey from the 
Island of Mull, July 22, 1818. 

There is a charm in footing slow across a silent 

plain. 
Where patriot battle has been fought, where 

glory had the gain ; 
There is a pleasure on the heath where Druids 

old have been. 
Where mantles gray have rustled by and swept 

the nettles green ; 
There is Joy in every spot made known by 

times of old, 
New to the feet, although each tale a hundred 

times be told ; 
There is a deeper Joy than all, more solemn in 

the heart. 
More parching to the tongue than all, of more 

divine a smart, 
When weary steps forget themselves upon a 

pleasant turf, 
Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron 

scurf. 
Toward the Castle or the Cot, where long ago 

was born 
One who was great through mortal days, and 

died of fame unshorn. 
Light heather-bells may tremble then, but they 

are far away ; 
Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern, — the 

Sun may hear his Lay ; 



FAMILIAR VERSES 



247 



Runnels may kiss the grass on shelves and shal- 
lows clear, 

But their low voices are not heard, though 
come on travels drear ; 

Blood-red the sun may set behind black moun- 
tain peaks ; 

Blue J^des may sluice and drench their time in 
Caves and weedy creeks ; 

Eagles may seem to sleep wing-wide upon the 
Air ; 

Ring-doves may fly eonvuls'd across to some 
higli-cedar'd lair ; 

But the forgotten eye is still fast lidded to the 
gi'ound. 

As Palmer's, that with weariness, mid-desert 
shrine hath found. 

At such a time the soul 's a child, in child- 
hood is the brain ; 

Forgotten is the worldly heart — alone, it beats 
in vain. — 

Aye, if a Madman could have leave to pass a 
healthfvd day 

To tell his forehead's swoon and faint when 
first began decay. 

He might make tremble many a one whose spirit 
had gone forth 

To find a Bard's low cradle-place about the 
silent North. 

Scanty the hour and few the steps beyond the 
bourn of Care, 

Beyond the sweet and bitter world, — beyond 
it unaware ! 

Scanty the hour and few the steps, because a 
longer stay 

Would bar return, and make a man forget his 
mortal way : 

O horrible ! to lose the sight of well remem- 
ber'd face. 

Of Brother's eyes, of Sister's brow — constant 
to every place ; 

Filling the Air, as on we move, with Portrai- 
ture intense ; 

More warm than those heroic tints that pain a 
Painter's sense. 

When shapes of old come striding by, and vis- 
ages of old. 

Locks shining black, hair scanty gray, and pas- 
sions manifold. 

No, no, that horror cannot be, for at the cable's 
length 

Man feels the gentle anchor pull and gladdens 
in its strensrth : — 

One hour, half-idiot, he stands by mossy water- 
fall. 

But in the very next he reads his soul's Memo- 
rial : — 



He reads it on the mountain's height, where 
chance he may sit down 

Upon rough marble diadem — that hill's eter- 
nal Crown. 

Yet be his Anchor e'er so fast, room is there 
for a prayer 

That man may never lose his Mind on Moun- 
tains black and bare ; 

That he may stray league after league some 
great birthplace to find 

And keep his vision clear from speck, his in- 
ward sight unbliud. 



MRS. CAMERON AND BEN NEVIS 

In his letter to Tom Keats, Aug-ust 3, 1818, 
which contains the sonnet written on Ben Ne- 
vis, Keats concludes a lively account of the 
ascent they made with this bit of nonsense : — 

After all there was one Mrs. Cameron of 50 
years of age and the fattest woman in all In- 
verness-shire who got up this Mountain some 
few years ago — true she had her servants — 
but then she had herself. She ought to have 
hired Sisyphus, — " Up the high hill he heaves 
a huge round — Mrs. Cameron." 'T is said a 
little conversation took place between the 
mountain and the Lady. After taking a glass 
of Whisky as she was tolerably seated at ease 
she thus beg'an — 



Upon my life Sir Nevis I am piqued 
That I have so far panted tugg'd and reek'd 
To do an honor to your old bald pate 
And now am sitting on you just to bait. 
Without your paying me one compliment. 
Alas, 't is so with all, when our intent 
Is plain, and in the eye of all Mankind 
We fair ones show a preference, too blind ! 
You Gentle man immediately turn tail — 
O let me then my hapless fate bewail ! 
Ungrateful Baldpate have I not disdain'd 
The pleasant Valleys — have I not madbrain'd 
Deserted all my Pickles and preserves 
My China closet too — with wretched Nerves 
To boot — say, wretched ingrate, have I not 
Left my soft cushion chair and caudle pot ? 
'Tis true I had no corns — no! thank the 

fates 
My Shoemaker was always Mr. Bates. 
And if not Mr. Bates why I 'm not old ! 
Still dumb ungrateful Nevis — still so cold ! 



248 



SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 



Here the Lady took some more whisky and 
was putting even more to her lips when she 
dashed it to the Ground, for the Mountain be- 
gan to grumble — which continued for a few 
minutes before he thus began — 

BEN NEVIS. 

What whining bit of tongue and Mouth thus 

dares 
Disturb my slumber of a thousand years ? 
Even so long my sleep has been secure — 
And to be so awak'd I '11 not endure. 
Oh pain — for since the Eagle's earliest scream 
I 've had a damn'd confounded ugly dream, 
A Nightmare sure. What ! Madam, was it 

you? 
It cannot be ! My old eyes are not true ! 
Red-Crag, my Spectacles ! Now let me see ! 
Good Heavens ! Lady, how the gemini 
Did you get here ? 0, I shall split my sides ! 
I shall earthquake — 



Sweet Nevis do not quake, for though I love 
Your honest Countenance all things above, 
Truly I should not like to be convey'd 
So far into your Bosom. — gentle Maid 
Loves not too rough a treatment, gentle Sir — 
Pray thee be calm and do not quake nor stir 
No, not a Stone, or I shall go in fits — 

BEN NEVIS. 

I must — I shall — I meet not such tit bits — 
I meet not such sweet creatures every day — 
By my old nightcap night and day 
I must have one sweet Buss — I must and shall ! 
Red Crag ! — What ! Madam, can you then re- 
pent 
Of all the toil and vigour you have spent 
To see Ben Nevis and to touch his nose ? 
Red Crag I say ! I must have them close ! 
Red Crag, there lies beneath my farthest toe 
A vein of Sulphur — go, dear Red Crag, go — 
And rub your flinty back against it — budge ! 
Dear Madam, I must kiss you, faith I must ! 
I must embrace you with my dearest gust ! 
Block-head, d' ye hear ! — Block-head, I '11 

make her feel. 
There lies beneath my east leg's northern heel 
A cave of young earth dragons ; — well my 

boy 
Go thither quick and so complete my joy. 
Take you a bundle of the largest pines, 
And when the sun on fiercest Phosphor shines, 
Fire them and ram them in the Dragon's nest. 
Then will the dragons fry and fizz their best 



Until ten thousand now no bigger than 
Poor Alligators — poor things of one span — 
Will each one swell to twice ten times the 

size 
Of northern whale — then for the tender prize — 
The moment then — for then will Red Crag rub 
His flinty back — and I shall kiss and sn«|b 
And press my dainty morsel to my breast. 
Block-head make haste ! 

O Muses, weep the rest — 
The Lady fainted and he thought her dead ; 
So pulled the clouds again about his head 
And went to sleep again ; soon she was rous'd 
By her affrighted servants — next day, hous'd 
Safe on the lowly ground she bless' d her fate 
That fainting fit was not delayed too late. 

But what surprised me above all is how 
the lady got down again. I felt it horribly. 
'T was the most vile descent — shook me all 
to pieces. 



SHARING eve's APPLE 

Printed by Mr. Forraan and assigned to 1818. 
Mr. Forman does not give his authority, save 
to say that the verses have been handed about 
in manuscript. 

BLUSH not so ! blush not so ! 

Or I shall think you knowing ; 
And if you smile the blushing while, 

Then maidenheads are going. 

There 's a blush for won't, and a blush for 
shan't. 
And a blush for having done it : 
There 's a blush for thought and a blush for 
nought. 
And a blush for just begun it. 

sigh not so ! O sigh not so ! 

For it sounds of Eve's sweet pippin ; 
By these loosen' d lips you have tasted the pips 

And foiight in an amorous nipping. 

Will you play once more at nice-cut-core. 
For it only will last our youth out. 

And we have the prime of the kissing tinae. 
We have not one sweet tooth out. 

There 's a sig-h for yes, and a sigh for no. 

And a sigh for I can't bear it ! 
what can be done, shall we stay or run ? 

cut the sweet apple and share it ! 



FAMILIAR VERSES 



249 



A PROPHECY : 
TO GEORGE KEATS IN AMERICA 

In a letter to his brother and his wife, Octo- 
ber 24, 1818, Keats says : ' If I had a prayer 
to make for any great good, next to Tom's re- 
covery, it should be tLat one of your children 
should be the first American Poet. I have a 
great mind to make a prophecy, and they say 
prophecies work on their own fultilment.' 

'T IS the witching time of night, 

Orbed is the moon and bright, 

And the Stars they glisten, glisten, 

Seeming with bright eyes to listen. 

For what listen they ? 

For a song and for a charm, 

See they glisten in alarm. 

And the Moon is waxing warm 

To hear what I shall say. 

Moon 1 keep wide thy golden ears — 

Hearken, Stars ! and hearken, Spheres ! — 

Hearken, thou eternal Sky ! 

I sing an infant's Lullaby, 

pretty lullaby ! 

Listen, listen, listen, listen. 

Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten. 

And hear my Lullaby ! 

Though the Rushes, that will make 

Its cradle, still are in the lake — 

Though the linen that will be 

Its swathe, is on the cotton tree — 

Though the woollen that will keep 

It warm, is on the silly sheep — 

Listen, Starlight, listen, listen. 

Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten. 

And hear my lullaby ! 

Child, I see thee ! Ch'ld, I 've found thee 

Midst of the quiet all around thee ! 

Child, I see thee ! Child, I spy thee ! 

And thy mother sweet is nigh thee ! 

Child, I know thee ! Child no more. 

But a Poet evermore ! 

See, see, the Lyre, the Lyre, 

In a flame of fire. 

Upon the little cradle's top 

Flaring, flaring, flaring, 

Past the eyesight's bearing. 

Awake it from its sleep. 

And see if it can keep 

Its eyes upon the blaze — 

Amaze, amaze ! 

It stares, it stares, it stares. 

It dares what no one dares ! 

It lifts its little hand into the flame 



Unharm'd, and on the strings 
Paddles a little tune, and sings. 
With dumb endeavour sweetly - 
Bard art thou completely ! 

Little child 

0' th' western wild. 
Bard art thou completely ! 
Sweetly with dumb endeavour, 
A Poet now or never, 

Little child 

O' th' western wild, 
A Poet now or never ! 



A LITTLE EXTEMPORE 

Inclosed in a letter to Geoi^e and Geoi^- 
ana Keats, written April 15, 1819. 

When they were come into the Faery's Court 

They rang — no one at home — all gone to sport 

And dance and kiss and love as faeries do 

For Faries be as humans lovers true. 

Amid the woods they were so lone and wild, 

Where even the Robin feels himself exil'd, 

And where the very brooks, as if afraid, 

Hurry along to some less magic shade. 

' No one at home ! ' the fretful Princess cry'd ; 

' And all for nothing such a dreary ride, 

And all for nothing my new diamond cross ; 

No one to see my Persian feathers toss, 

No one to see my Ape, my Dwarf, my Fool, 

Or how I pace my Otaheitan mule. 

Ape, Dwarf, and Fool, whj' stand you gaping 

there. 
Burst the door open, quick — or I declare 
I '11 switch you soundly and in pieces tear.' 
The Dwarf began to tremble, and the Ape 
Star'd at the Fool, the Fool was all agape, 
The Princess grasp'd her switch, but just in 

time 
The dwarf with piteous face began to rhyme. 
' O mighty Princess, did you ne'er hear tell 
What your poor servants know but too too 

well? 
Know you the three great crimes in Faeryland ? 
The first, alas ! poor Dwarf, I understand, 
I made a whipstock of a faery's wand ; 
The next is snoring in their company ; 
The next, the last, the direst of the three. 
Is making free when they are not at home. 
I was a Prince — a baby prince — my doom. 
You see, I made a whipstock of a wand. 
My top has henceforth slept in faery land. 
He was a Prince, the Fool, a grown-tip Prince, 
But he has never been a King's son since 
He fell a snoring at a faery Ball. 



25° 



SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 



You poor Ape was a Prince, and he poor thing 
Pieklock'd a faery's boudoir — now no king 
But ape — so pray your highness. stay awhile, 
'T is sooth indeed, we know it to our sorrow — 
Persist and you may be an ape to-morrow.' 
While the Dwarf spake, the Princess, all for 

spite, 
Peel'd the brown hazel twig to lily white, 
Cleneh'd her small teeth, and held her lips 

apart, 
Try'd to look unconcern'd with heating heart. 
They saw her highness had made up her mind, 
A-quavering like the reeds before the wind — 
And they had had it, but O happy chance ! 
The Ape for very fear began to dance 
And grinn'd as all his ugliness did ache — 
She staid her vixen fingers for his sake, 
He was so very ugly : then she took 
Her pocket-mirror and began to look 
First at herself and then at him, and then 
She smil'd at her own beauteous face again. 
Yet for all this — for all her pretty face — • 
She took it in her head to see the place. 
Women gain little from experience 
Either in Lovers, husbands, or expense. 
The more their beauty the more fortune too — 
Beauty before the wide world never knew — 
So each fair reasons — tho' it oft miscarries. 
She thought her pretty face would please the 

fairies. 
' My darling Ape, I wont whip you to-day. 
Give me the Picklock sirrah and go play.' 
They all three wept but counsel was as vain 
As crying cup biddy to drops of rain. 
Yet lingering by did the sad Ape forth draw 
The Picklock from the Pocket in his Jaw. 
The Princess took it, and dismounting straight 
Tripp'd in blue silver'd slippers to the gate 
And touch'd the wards, the Door full courteous 
Opened — she enter'd with her servants three. 
Again it clos'd and there was nothing seen 
But the Mule grazing on the herbage green. 
End of Canto XII. 

CANTO THE XIII 

The Mule no sooner saw himself alone 

Than he prick'd up his Ears — and said ' well 

done ; 
At least unhappy Prince I may be free — 
No more a Princess shall side-saddle me. 

King of Otaheite — tho' a Mule, 

"Aye, every inch a King" — tho' "Fortune's 

Fool," 
Well done — for by what Mr. Dwarfy said 

1 would not give a sixpence for her head.' 
Even as he spake he trotted in high glee 
To the knotty side of an old Pollard tree, 



And rubb'd his sides against the mossed bark 
Till his Girths burst and left him naked stark 
Except his Bridle — how get rid of that 
Buckled and tied with >uany a twist and plait. 
At last it struck him to pretend to sleep. 
And then the thievish Monkeys down would 

creep 
And filch the unpleasant tramm.els quite away. 
No sooner thought of than adown he lay, 
Shamm'd a good snore — the Monkey-men de- 
scended 
And whom they thought to injure they be- 
friended. 
They hung his Bridle on a topmost bough 
And off he went run, trot, or anyhow — 



SPENSERIAN STANZAS ON CHARLES ARMI- 
TAGE BROWN 

Inclosed in a letter to George and Georgi- 
ana Keats, April 16 or 17, 1819 : ' Brown this 
morning is writing some Spenserian stanzas 
against Mrs., Miss Brawne and me ; so I shall 
amuse myself with him a little : in the manner 
of Spenser.' 

He is to weet a melancholy Carle : 
Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair. 
As hath the seeded thistle when in parle 
It holds the Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair 
Its light balloons into the summer air ; 
There to his beard had not begun to bloom. 
No brush had touch'd his chin, or razor 

sheer ; 
No care had touched his cheek with mortal 
doom. 
But new he was, and bright, as scarf from Per- 
sian loom. 

Ne cared he for wine, or half-and-half ; 
Ne cared he for fish, or flesh, or fowl ; 
And sauces held he worthless as the chaff ; 
He 's deigned the swineherd at the wassail 

bowl; 
Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl ; 
Ne with sly Lemans in the scorn er's chair ; 
But after water-brooks this Pilgrim's soul 
Panted, and all his food was woodland air ; 
Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers 

rare. 

The slang of cities in no wise he knew ; 
Tipping the wink to him was heathen Greek ; 
He sipp'd no ' olden Tom,' or ' ruin blue,' 
Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drunk full meek 



FAMILIAR VERSES 



25^ 



By many a Damsel hoarse, and rouge of 

cheek ; 
Nor did he know each aged Watchman's 

beat, 
Nor in obscured purlieus would he seek 
For curled Jewesses, with ankles neat. 
Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with 

their feet. 



' TWO OR THREE POSIES ' 

At the close of a letter, April 17, 1819, to 
his sister Fanny, Keats writes : ' Mr. and Mrs. 
Dilke are commg- to dine with us to-day [at 
Wentworth Place]. They will enjoy the 
country after Westminster. there is nothing- 
like fine weather, and health, and Books, and a 
fine country, and a contented Mind, and dili- 
gent habit of reading- and thinking, and an 
amulet against the ennui — and, please hea- 
ven, a little claret wine cool out of a cellar a 
mile deep — with a few or a good many ratafia 
cakes — a rocky basin to bathe in, a strawberry 
bed to say your prayers to Flora in, a pad nag 
to go you ten miles or so ; two or three sensi- 
ble people to chat with ; two or three spiteful 
folks to spar with ; two or three odd fishes to 
laugh at and two or three numskulls to argue 
with — instead of using dumb bells on a rainy 
day.' 

Two or three Posies 

With two or three simples — 

Two or three Noses 

With two or three pimples — 

Two or three wise men 

And two or three ninny's — 

Two or three purses 

And two or three guineas — 

Two or three raps 

At two or three doors — 

Two or three naps 

Of two or three hours — 

Two or three Cats 

And two or three mice — 

Two or three sprats 

At a very great price — 

Two or three sandies 

And two or three tabbies — 

Two or three dandies 

And two Mrs. mum ! 

Two or three Smiles 

And two or three frowns — 

Two or three Miles 

To two or three towns — 



Two or three pegs 
For two or three bonnets — 
Two or three dove eggs 
To hatch into sonnets — 



A PARTY OF LOVERS 

'Somewhere in the Spectator is related an 
account of a man inviting a party of stutterers 
and squinters to his table. It would please me 
more to scrape together a party of lovers — 
not to dinner but to tea. There would be no 
fighting as among knights of old.' Keats to 
George and Georgiana Keats, September 17, 
1819. The play on names seems to indicate 
some trifling reference to Keats's publishers of 
Taj'lor and Hessey. 

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes, 
Nibble their toast, and cool their tea with sighs. 
Or else forget the purpose of the night. 
Forget their tea — forget their appetite. 
See with cross'd arms they sit — ah! happy 

crew. 
The fire is going out and no one rings 
For coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings. 
A fly is in the milk-pot — must he die 

By a humane society ? 
No, no ; there Mr. Werter takes his spoon, 
Inserts it, dips the handle, and lo ! soon 
The little straggler, sav'd from perils dark, 
Across the teaboard draws a long wet mark. 

Arise ! take snuffers by the handle. 
There 's a large cauliflower in each candle. 
A winding-sheet, ah me ! I must away 
To No. 7, just beyond the circus gay. 
' Alas, my friend ! your coat sits very well ; 
Where may your Taylor live ? ' 'I may not 
tell, 

pardon me • — I'm absent now and then. 
Where might my Taylor live ? I say again 

1 cannot tell, let me no more be teaz'd — 

He lives in Wapping, might live where he 
pleas'd.' 



TO GEORGE KEATS 
WRITTEN IN SICKNESS 

This is from a transcript by George Keats, 
and dated 1819 ; but Keats's letters do not dis- 
close any sickness during that year which 
would be likely to call forth the lines, and the 
date is probably 1820. 



252 



SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 



Brotheb belov'd if health shall smile again, 
Upon this wasted form and f ever'd cheek : 
If e'er returning vigour bid these weak 
And languid limbs their gladsome strength re- 
gain, 
Well may thy brow the placid glow retain 
Of sweet content and thy pleas' d eye may 

speak 
The conscious self applause, but should I seek 
To utter what this heart can feel, — Ah ! vain 
Were the attempt ! Yet kindest friends while 
o'er 
My couch ye bend, and watch with tenderness 
The being whom your cares could e'en restore. 
From the cold grasp of Death, say can you 

guess 
The feelings which these lips can ne'er ex- 
press ? 
Feelings, deep fix'd in grateful memory's store. 



ON OXFORD 

Charles Armitage Brown, writing to Henry 
Snook from Hampstead 24 March, 1820, says : 
' Tom shall have one of his [ Keats 's] bits of 
comic verses, — I met with them only yester- 
day, but they have been written long ago, — 
it is a song on the City of Oxford.' 

The Gothic looks solemn, 

The plain Doric column 
Supports an old Bishop and Crozier ; 

The mouldering arch, 

Shaded o'er by a larch. 
Stands next door to Wilson the Hosier. 

Vice, — that is, by turns, — 
O'er pale faces mourns 



The black tassell'd trencher and common hat ; 

The charity boy sings. 

The Steeple-bell rings 
And as for the Chancellor — dominat. 

There are plenty of trees, 

And plenty of ease. 
And plenty of fat deer for Parsons ; 

And when it is venison. 

Short is the benison, — 
Then each on a leg or thigh fastens. 

TO A CAT 

These verses were addressed by Keats to a 
cat belonging to Mrs. Reynolds of Little Bri- 
tain, the mother of his friend John Hamilton 
Reynolds. Mrs. Reynolds gave the verses to 
her son-in-law, Tom Hood, who published them 
in his Comic Annual for 1830. 

Cat ! who has[t] pass'd thy grand clima[e]- 
teric. 
How many mice and rats hast in thy days 
Destroy'd ? — How many tit-bits stolen ? 
Gaze 
With those bright languid segments green, and 

prick 
Those velvet ears — but pr'ythee do not stick 
Thy latent talons in me — and upraise 
Thy gentle mew — and tell me all thy frays 
Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick : 
Nay, look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists 

For all the wheezy asthma, — and for all 
Thy tail's tip is nick'd off — and though the 
fists 
Of many a maid has given thee many a maul. 
Still is that fur as soft as when the lists 

In youth thou enter'dst on glass-bottled wall. 



LETTERS 



Ya 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



1. TO CHAKLES COWDEN CLAKKE 

[London, October 31, 1816.] 
My daintie Davie — I will be as punc- 
tual as the Bee to the Clover. Very glad 
am I at the thoughts of seeing so soon this 
glorious Haydon and all his creation. I 
pray thee let me know when you go to 
OUier's and where he resides — this I for- 
got to ask you — and tell me also when 
you will help me waste a sullen day — God 
'ield you^ — J. K. 

2. TO CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE 

[London,] Tuesday [December 17, 1816]. 
My DEAR Charles — You may now look 
at Minerva's ^gis with impunity, seeing 
that my awful Visage - did not turn you 
into a John Doree. You have accordingly 
a legitimate title to a Copy — I will use 
my interest to procure it for you. I '11 tell 
you what — I met Reynolds at Haydon's a 
few mornings since — he promised to be 
with me this Evening and Yesterday I had 
the same promise from Severn and I must 
put you in mind that on last All hallow- 
mas' day you gave me your word that you 
would spend this Evening with me — so no 
putting off. I have done little to Endy- 
miou lately - — I hope to finish it in one 
more attack. I believe you I went to 
Richards's — it was so whoreson a Night 
that I stopped there all the next day. His 
Remembrances to you. (Ext. froni the 
common place Book of my Mind — Mem. 

— Wednesday — Hampstead — call in 
Warner Street — a sketch of Mr. Hunt.) 

— I will ever consider you my sincere and 
affectionate friend — you will not doubt 
that I am yours. 

God bless you — John Keats. 



3. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 

[London,] Sunday Evening 
[March 2, 1817?]. 

My dear Reynolds — Your kindness ^ 
affects me so sensibly that I can merely put 
down a few mono-sentences. Your Criti- 
cism only makes me extremely anxious that 
I should not deceive you. 

It 's the finest thing by God as Hazliti 
would say. However I hope I may not 
deceive you. There are some acquaint- 
ances of mine who will scratch their Beards 
and although I have, I hope, some Charity, 
I wish their Nails may be long. I will be 
ready at the time you mention in all Hap- 
piness. 

There is a report that a young Lady of 
16 has written the new Tragedy, God bless 
her — I will know her by Hook or by 
Crook in less than a week. My Brothers' 
and my Remembrances to your kind Sis- 
ters. 

Yours most sincerely 

John Keats. 

4. TO THE S.-UVIB 

[London, March 17, 1817.] 
My dear Reynolds — My Brothers are 
anxious that I should go by myself into the 
'country — they have always been extremely 
fond of me, and now that Haydon has 
pointed out how necessary it is that I should 
be alone to improve myself, they give up 
the temporary pleasure of living with me 
continually for a great good which I hope 
will follow. So I shall soon be out of 
Town. You must soon bring all your pre- 
sent troubles to a close, and so must I, but 
we must, like the Fox, prepare for a fresh 
swarm of flies. Banish money — Banish 



256 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



sofas — Banish Wine — Banish Music ; but 
right Jack Health, honest Jack Health, 
true Jack Health — Banish health and 
banish all the world. I must . . . myself 
... if I come this evening, I shall horri- 
bly commit myself elsewhere. So I will 
send my excuses to them and Mrs. Dilke 
by my brothers. 

Your sincere friend 

John Keats. 



5. TO GEORGE AND THOMAS KEATS 

[Southampton,] Tuesday Morn 
[AprillS, 1817]. 

My DEAR Brothers — I am safe at 
Southampton — after having ridden three 
stages outside and the rest in for it began to 
be very cold. I did not know the Names of 
any of the Towns I passed through — all I 
can tell you is that sometimes I saw dusty 
Hedges — sometimes Ponds — then nothing 

— then a little Wood with trees look you 
like Launce's Sister ' as white as a Lily 
and as small as a Wand ' — then came 
houses which died away into a few strag- 
gling Barns — then came hedge trees 
aforesaid again. As the Lamplight crept 
along the following things were discovered 

— ' long heath broom furze ' — Hurdles 
here and there half a Mile — Park pal- 
ings when the Windows of a House were 
always discovered by reflection — One 
Nymph of Fountain — N. B. Stone — 
lopped Trees — Cow ruminating — ditto 
Donkey — Man and Woman going gin- 
gerly along — William seeing his Sisters 
over the Heath — John waiting with a 
Lanthorn for his Mistress — Barber's Pole 

— Doctor's Shop — However after having 
had my fill of these I popped my Head out 
just as it began to Dawn — N. B. this Tues- 
day Morn saw the Sun rise — of which I 
shall say nothing at present. I felt rather 
lonely this Morning at Breakfast so I went 
and unbox'd a Shakspeare — ' There 's 
my Comfort.' ^ I went immediately after 
Breakfast to Southampton Water where I 



enquired for the Boat to the Isle of Wight 
as I intend seeing that place before I set- 
tle — it will go at 3, so shall I after having 
taken a Chop. I know nothing of this 
place but that it is long — tolerably broad 

— has bye streets — two or three Churches 

— a very respectable old Gate with two 
Lions to guard it. The Men and Women 
do not materially differ from those I have 
been in the Habit of seeing. I forgot to 
say that from dawn till half-past six I went 
through a most delightful Country — some 
open Down but for the most part thickly 
wooded. What surprised me most was an 
immense quantity of blooming Furze on 
each side the road cutting a most rural 
dash. The Southampton water when I 
saw it just now was no better than a low 
water Water which did no more than 
answer my expectations — it will have 
mended its Manners by 3. From the 
Wharf are seen the shores on each side 
stretching to the Isle of Wight. You, 
Haydon, Reynolds, etc. have been pushing 
each other out of my Brain by turns. I 
have conned over every Head in Haydon's 
Picture — you must warn them not to be 
afraid should my Ghost visit them on 
Wednesday — tell Haydon to Kiss his Hand 
at Betty over the Way for me yea and to 
spy at her for me. I hope one of you will 
be competent to take part in a Trio while I 
am away — you need only aggravate your 
voices a little and mind not to speak Cues 
and all — when you have said Rum-ti-ti — 
you must not be rum any more or else 
another will take up the ti-ti alone and then 
he might be taken God shield us for little 
better than a Titmouse. By the by talking 
of I'itmouse Remember me particularly to 
all n y Friends — give my Love to the Miss 
Reynoldses and to Fanny who I hope you 
will soon see. Write to me soon about them 
ay[ — and you George particularly how you 
gtet on with Wilkinson's plan. What could 
I) have done without ray Plaid ? I don't 
ffeel inclined to write any more at present 
for I feel rather muzzy — you must be con- 



TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 



257 



tent with this fac simile of the rough plan 
of Aunt Dinah's Counterpane.^ 

Your most affectionate Brother 

John Keats. 

Reynolds shall hear from me soon. 

6. TO JOHN HAMILTON KEYNOLDS 

Carisbrooke, AprU 17th [1827]. 
My dear Reynolds — Ever since I 
wrote to my Brothers from Southampton 
I have beeu in a taking — and at this 
moment I am about to become settled — 
for I have unpacked my books, put them 
into a snug corner, pinned up Haydon, 
Mary Queen of Scots, and Milton with his 
daughters in a row. In the passage I found 
a head of Shakspeare which I had not be- 
fore seen. It is most likely the same that 
George spoke so well of, for I like it ex- 
tremely. Well — this head I have hung 
over my Books, just above the three in a 
row, having first discarded a French Am- 
bassador — now this alone is a good morn- 
ing's work. Yesterday I went to Shanklin, 
which occasioned a great debate in my 
mind whether I should live there or at 
Carisbrooke. Shanklin is a most beautiful 
place — Sloping wood and meadow ground 
reach round the Chine, which is a cleft be- 
tween the Cliffs of the depth of nearly 300 
feet at least. This cleft is filled with trees 
and bushes in the narrow part, and as it 
widens becomes bare, if it were not for 
primroses on one side, which spread to the 
very verge of the Sea, and some fishermen's 
huts on the other, perched midway in the 
Balustrades of beautiful green Hedges 
along their steps down to the sands. But 
the sea, Jack, the sea — the little waterfall 
— then the white cliff — then St. Cathe- 
rine's Hill — ' the sheep in the meadows, the 
cows in the corn.' Then, why are you at 
Carisbrooke ? say 5'ou. Because, in the first 
place, I should be at twice the Expense, 
and three times the inconvenience — next 
that from here I can see your continent — 



from a little hill close by the whole north 
Angle of the Isle of Wight, with the water 
between us. In the 3rd place, i see Caris- 
brooke Castle from my window, and have 
found several delightful woud-alleys, and 
copses, and quick freshes. As for prim- 
roses — the Island ought to be called 
Primrose Island — that is, if the nation of 
Cowslips agree thereto, of which there are 
divers Clans just beginning to lift up their 
heads. Another reason of my fixing is, that 
I am more in reach of the places around 
me. I intend to walk over the Island east 
— West — North — South. I have not 
seen many specimens of Ruins — I don't 
think however I shall ever see one to sur- 
pass Carisbrooke Castle. The trench is 
overgrown with the smoothest turf, and the 
Walls with ivy. The Keep within side is 
one Bower of ivy — a colony of Jackdaws 
have been there for many years. 1 dare 
say I have seen many a descendant of some 
old cawer who peeped through the Bars 
at Charles the first, when he was there in 
Confinement. On the road from Cowes to 
Newport I saw some extensive Barracks, 
which disgusted me extremely with the 
Government for placing such a Nest of De- 
bauchery in so beautiful a place. I asked a 
man on the Coach about this — and he said 
that the people had been spoiled. In the 
room where I slept at Newport, I found 
this on the Window — ' O Isle spoilt by the 
milatary ! . . .' 

The wind is in a sulky fit, and I feel that 
it would be no bad thing to be the favourite 
of some Fairy, who would give one the 
power of seeing how our Friends got on at 
a Distance. I should like, of all Loves, a 
sketch of you and Tom and George in ink 
whicli Haydon will do if you tell him how 
I want them. From want of regidar rest I 
have been rather narvus — and the passage 
in Lear — ' Do you not hear the sea?' — 
has haunted me intensely. 

[Here follows the sonnet ' On the Sea,' p. 37.] 



258 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



April 18th. 
Will you have the goodness to do this ? 
Borrow a Botanical Dictionary — turn to 
the words Laurel and Pruuus, show the ex- 
planations to your sisters and Mrs. Dilke 
and without more ado let them send me the 
Cups Basket and Books they trifled and 
put off and off while I was in town. Ask 
them what they can say for themselves — 
ask Mrs. Dilke wherefore she does so dis- 
tress me — let me know how Jane has her 
health — the Weather is unfavourable for 
her. Tell George and Tom to write. I '11 
tell you what — ou the 23d was Shakspeare 
born. Now if I should receive a letter from 
you and another from my Brothers on that 
day 't would be a pai'lous good thing. When- 
ever you write say a word or two on some 
Passage in Shakspeare that may have come 
rather new to you, which must be con- 
tinually happening, notwithstanding that 
we read the same Play forty times — for 
instance, the following from the Tempest 
never struck me so forcibly as at present, 

' Urchins 
Shall, for the vast of night that they may work. 
All exercise on thee — ' 

How can I help bringing to your mind the 
line — 
In the dark backward and abysm of time — 
I find I cannot exist without Poetry — 
without eternal Poetry — half the day will 
not do — the whole of it — I began with a 
little, but habit has made me a Leviathan. 
I had become all in a Tremble from not 
having written anything of late — the Son- 
net overleaf did me good. I slept the better 
last night for it — this Morning, however, 
I am nearly as bad again. Just now I 
opened Spenser, and the first Lines I saw 
were these — 

'The noble heart that harbours virtuous 

thought, 
And is with child of glorious great intent, 
Can never rest until it forth have brought 
Th' eternal brood of glory excellent — ' 

Let me know particularly about Haydon, 
ask him to write to me about Hunt, if it be 



only ten lines — 1 hope all is well — I shall 
forthwith begin my Endymion, which I 
hope I shall have got some way with by the 
time you come, when we will read our 
verses in a delightful place I have set my 
heart upon, near the Castle. Give my Love 
to your Sisters severally — to George and 
Tom. Remember me to Rice, Mr. and 
Mrs. Dilke and all we know. 

Your sincere Friend John Keats. 

Direct J. Keats, Mrs. Cook's, New Vil- 
lage, Carisbrooke. 

7. TO LEIGH HUNT 

Margate, May 10, 1817. 
My deak Hunt — The little gentleman 
that sometimes lurks in a gossip's bowl, 
ought to have come in the very likeness of 
a roasted crab, and choaked me outright for 
not answering your letter ere this: how- 
ever, you must not suppose that I was in 
town to receive it: no, it followed me to the 
Isle of Wight, and I got it just as I was 
going to pack up for Margate, for reasons 
which you anon shall hear. On arriving at 
this treeless affair, I wrote to my brother 
George to request C. C. C. to do the thing 
you wot of respecting Rimini; and George 
tells me he has undertaken it with great 
pleasure; so I hope there has been an un- 
derstanding between you for many proofs: 
C. C. C. is well acquainted with Bensley. 
Now why did you not send the key of your 
cupboard, which, I know, was full of pa- 
pers? We would have locked them all in 
a trunk, together with those you told me 
to destroy, which indeed I did not do, for 
fear of demolishing receipts, there not being 
a more unpleasant thing in the world (saving 
a thousand and one others) than to pay a 
bill twice. Mind you, old Wood 's a ' very 
varmint,' shrouded in covetousness: — and 
now I am upon a horrid subiect — what a 
horrid one you were upon last Sunday, and 
well you handled it. The last Examiner 
was a battering-ram against Christianity, 
blasphemy, TertuUian, Erasmus, Sir Philip 






TO LEIGH HUNT 



259 



Sidney; and then the dreadful Petzelians 
and their expiation hj blood ; and do Chris- 
tians shudder at the same thing in a news- 
paper which they attriimte to their God in 
its most aggravated foiin? What is to be 
the end of this? I must mention Hazlitt's 
Southey.^ O that he had left out the grey 
hairs; or that they had been in any other 
paper not concluding with such a thunder- 
clap ! That sentence about making a page 
of the feeling of a whole life, appears to me 
like a whale's back in the sea of prose. 
I ought to have said a word on Shak- 
speare's Christianity. There are two which 
I have not looked over with you, touching 
the thing: the one for, the other against: 
that in favour is in Measure for Measure, 
Act II. Scene ii. — 

Isab. Alas, alas ! 
Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once; 
And He that might the 'vantage best have took. 
Found out the remedy. 

That against is in Twelfth Night, Act III. 
Scene ii. — 

Maria. For there is no Christian that means 
to be saved by believing rightly, can ever be- 
lieve such impossible passages of grossness. 

Before I come to the Nymphs,^ I must 
get through all disagreeables. I went to 
the Isle of Wight, thought so much about 
poetry, so long together, that I could not 
get to sleep at night; and, moreover, I know 
not how it was, I could not get wholesome 
food. By this means, in a week or so, I be- 
came not over capable in my upper stories, 
and set off pell-mell for Margate, at least 
a hundred and fifty miles, because, forsooth, 
I fancied that I should like my old lodging 
here, and could contrive to do without trees. 
Another thing, I was too much in soli- 
tude, and consequently was obliged to be in 
continual burning of thought, as an only 
resource. However, Tom is with me at 
present, and we are very comfortable. We 
intend, though, to get among some trees. 
How have you got on among them? How 
are the Nymphs ? 1 suppose they have led 



you a fine dance. Where are you now ? — 
in Judea, Cappadocia, or the parts of Libya 
about Cyrene ? Stranger from ' Heaven, 
Hues, and Prototypes,' I wager you have 
given several new turns to the old saying, 
' Now the maid was fair and pleasant to 
look on,' as well as made a little variation 
in ♦ Once upon a time.' Perhaps, too, you 
have rather varied, ' Here endeth the first 
lesson.' Thus I hope you have made a 
horseshoe business of ' unsuperfluous life,' 
'faint bowers,' and fibrous roots. I vow 
that I have been down in the mouth lately 
at this work. These last two days, how- 
ever, I have felt more confident — I have 
asked myself so often why I should be a 
poet more than other men, seeing how 
great a thing it is, — how great things are 
to be gained by it, what a thing to be in 
the mouth of Fame, — that at last the idea 
has grown so monstrously beyond my seem- 
ing power of attainment, that the other day 
I nearly consented with myself to drop into 
a Phaethon. Yet 'tis a disgrace to fail, 
even in a huge attempt; and at this mo- 
ment I drive the thought from me. 1 began 
my poem about a fortnight since, and have 
done some every day, except travelling 
ones. Perhaps I may have done a good 
deal for the time, but it appears such a 
pin's point to me, that I will not copy any 
out. When I consider that so many of 
tliese pin-points go to form a bodkin-point 
(God send I end not my life with a bare 
bodkin, in its modern sense!), and that it 
requires a thousand bodkins to make a spear 
bright enough to throw any light to pos- 
terity, I see nothing but continual uphill 
journeying. Now is there anything more 
unpleasant (it may come among the thou- 
sand and one) than to be so journeying and 
to miss the goal at last ? But I intend to 
whistle all these cogitations into the sea, 
where I hope they will breed storms violent 
enough to block up all exit from Russia. 
Does Shelley go on telling strange stories 
of the deaths of kings ? '' Tell him, there 
are strange stories of the deaths of poets. 



26o 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



Some have died before they were con- 
ceived. ' How do you make that out, 
Master Vellum ? ' Does Mrs. S. cut bread 
and butter as neatly as ever ? Tell her to 
procure some fatal scissors, and cut the 
thread of life of all to-be-disappointed 
poets. Does Mrs. Hunt tear linen as 
straight as ever ? Tell her to tear from 
the book of life all blank leaves. Remem- 
ber me to them all; to Miss Kent and the 
little ones all. 

Your sincere Friend 

John Keats alias Junkets. 

You shall hear where we move. 



8. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 

Margate, Saturday Eve [May 10, 1817]. 
My Dear Haydon, 

' Let Fame, that all pant after in their lives, 
Live register'd upon our brazen tombs. 
And so gi-aee iis in the disgrace of death : 
When spite of cormorant devouring Time 
The endeavour of this preseiat breath may buy 
That Honour which shall bate his Scythe's keen 

edge 
And make us heirs of all eternity.' 

Love's Labour 's Lost^ I. i. 1 — 7. 

To think that I have no right to couple 
myself with you in this speech would be 
death to me, so I have e'en written it, and 
I l^ray God that our ' brazen tombs ' be 
nigh neighbours. It cannot be long first ; 
the ' endeavour of this present breath ' will 
soon be over, and yet it is as well to breathe 
freely during our sojourn — it is as well 
as if you have not been teased with that 
Money affair, that bill-pestilence. How- 
ever, I must think that difficulties nerve 
the Spirit of a Man — they make our Prime 
Objects a Refuge as well as a Passion. The 
Trumpet of Fame is as a tower of Strength, 
the ambitious bloweth it and is safe. 1 sup- 
pose, by your telling me not to give way to 
forebodings, George has mentioned to you 
what 1 have lately said in my Letters to 
him — truth is 1 have been in such a state 
of Mind as to read over my Lines and hate 



them. I am one that ' gathers Samphire, 
dreadful trade ' — the Cliif of Poesy 
towers above me — yet when Tom who 
meets witli some of Pope's Homer in Plu- 
tarch's Lives reads some of those to me 
they seem like Mice to mine. I read and 
write about eight hours a day. There is an 
old saying ' well begun is half done ' — 
't is a bad one. I would use instead, ' Not 
begun at all tiU half done; ' so according to 
that I have not begun my Poem and conse- 
quently (k priori) can say nothing about it. 
Thank God ! I do begin arduously where 
I leave off, notwithstanding occasional de- 
pressions ; and I hope for the support of 
a High Power while I climb this little emi- 
nence, and especially in m}' Years of more 
momentous Labour. I remember your say- 
ing that you had notions of a good (xenius 
presiding over you. I have of late had the 
same thought, for things which I do half at 
Random are afterwards confirmed by my 
judgment in a dozen features of Propriety. 
Is it too daring to fancy Shakspeare this 
Presider ? When in the Isle of Wight I met 
with a Shakspeare in the Passage of the 
House at which I lodged — it comes nearer 
to my idea of him than any I have seen — 
I was but there a Week, yet the old woman 
made me take it with me though I went off 
in a hurry. Do you not think this is omi- 
nous of good ? I am glad you say every 
man of great views is at times tormented 
as I am. 

Sunday after [May 11] 
This Morning I received a letter from 
George by which it appears that Money 
Troubles are to follow us up for some time 
to come — perhaps for always — these vexa- 
tions are a great hindrance to one — the}' 
are not like Envy and detraction stimulants 
to further exertion as being immediately 
relative and reflected on at the same time 
with the prime object — but rather like a 
nettle leaf or two in your bed. So now I 
revoke my Promise of finishing my Poem 
by the Autumn which I should have done 
had I gone on as I have done — but 1 can 



TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 



261 



not write while my spirit is fevered in a 
contrary direction and I am now snre of 
aaving plenty of it this Summer. At this 
moment I am in no enviable Situation — 
I feel that I am not in a Mood to write 
any to-day; and it appears that the loss of 
it is the beginning of all sorts of irregu- 
larities. I am extremely glad that a time 
must come when everything will leave not 
a wrack behind. You tell me never to 
despair — I wish it was as easy for me to 
observe the saying — truth is I have a 
horrid Morbidity of Temperament which 
has shown itself at intervals — it is I have 
no doubt the greatest Enemy and stumbling- 
block I have to fear — I may even say that 
it is likely to be the cause of my disappoint- 
ment. However every ill has its share of 
good — this very bane would at any time 
enable me to look with an obstinate eye on 
the Devil Himself — aye to be as proud of 
being the lowest of the human race as 
Alfred could be in being of the highest. 
I feel confident I shonld have been a rebel 
angel had the opportunity been mine. I am 
very sure that you do love me as your very 
Brother — I have seen it in your continual 
anxiety for me — and I assure you that 
your welfare and fame is and will be a 
chief pleasure to me all my Life. I know 
no one but you who can be fully sensible of 
the turmoil and anxiety, the sacrifice of all 
what is called comfort, the readiness to 
measure time by what is done and to die in 
six hours could plans be brought to conclu- 
sions — the looking upon the Sun, the Moon, 
the Stars, the Earth and its contents, as 
materials to form greater things — that is 
to say ethereal things — biit here I am 
talking like a Madman, — greater things 
than our Creator himself made ! ! 

I wrote to Hunt yesterday — scarcely 
know what I said in it. I could not talk 
about Poetry in the way I should have liked 
for I was not in humor with either his or 
mine. His self-delusions are very lament- 
able — the;; have enticed him into a Situa- 
tion which I should be less eager after than 



that of a galley Slave — what you observe 
thereon is very true must be in time. 

Perhaps it is a self-delusion to sa}' so — 
but I think I could not be deceived in the 
manner that Hunt is — may I die to- 
morrow if I am to be. There is no greater 
Sin after the seven deadly than to flatter 
oneself into an idea of being a great Poet 
— or one of those beings who are privileged 
to wear out their Lives in the pursuit of 
Honor — how comfortable a feel it is to feel 
that such a Crime must bring its heavy 
Penalty ? That if one be a Self-deluder 
accounts must be balanced ? I am glad 
you are hard at Work — 't will now soon 
be done — I long to see Wordsworth's as 
well as to have mine in:^ but I would 
rather not show my face in Town till the 
end of the Year — if that will be time 
enough — if not I shall be disappointed if 
you do not write for me even when you 
think best. I never quite despair and I read 
Shakspeare — indeed I shall I think never 
read any other Book much. Now this might 
lead me into a long Confab but I desist. 
I am very near agreeing with Hazlitt that 
Shakspeare is enough for us. By the by 
what a tremendous Southean article his last 
was — I wish he had left out 'grey hairs.' 
It was very gratifying to meet your re- 
marks on the manuscript — I was reading 
Anthony and Cleopatra when I got the 
Paper and there are several Passages ap- 
plicable to the events you commentate. 
You say that he arrived by degrees and not 
by any single struggle to the height of his 
ambition — and that his Life had been as 
common in particulars as other Men's. 
Shakspeare makes Enobarb say — 

Wliere 's Antony ? 
Eros. — He 's walkinp: in the g'arden, and 
spurns 
The rush that lies before him ; cries, Fool, Le- 
pidus ! 

In the same scene we find — 

Let determined things 
To destiny hold unbewailed their way. 



262 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



Dolabella says of Anthony's Messenger, 

An argument that he is pluck'd when hither 
He sends so poor a pinion of his wing. 

Then again — 

JEno. — I see Men's Judgments are 
A parcel of their fortunes ; and things outward 
Do draw the inward quality after them. 
To suffer all alike. 

The following applies well to Bertrand ^ — 

Yet he that can endure 
To foUow with allegiance a fallen Lord, 
Does conquer him that did his Master conquer, 
And earns a place i' the story. 

But how differently does Buonaparte bear 
his fate from Anthony ! 

'T is good, too, that the Duke of Welling- 
ton has a good Word or so in the Examiner. 
A man ought to have the Fame he deserves 
— and I begin to think that detracting 
from him as well as from Wordsworth is 
the same thing. I wish he had a little more 
taste — and did not in that respect ' deal 
in Lieutenantry.' You should have heard 
from me before this — but in the first place 
I did not like to do so before I had got a 
little way in the First Book, and in the 
next as G. told me you were going to write 
I delayed till I had heard from you. Give 
my Respects the next time you write to the 
North and also to John Hunt. Remember 
me to Reynolds and tell him to write. Ay, 
and when you send Westward tell your 
Sister that I mentioned her in this. So now 
in the name of Shakspeare, Raphael and 
all our Saints, I commend you to the care 
of heaven ! 

Your everlasting Friend John Keats. 

9, TO MESSRS. TATLOB AND HESSET 

Margate, May 16, 1817. 
My deak Sirs — I am extremely indebted 
to you for your liberality in the shape of 
manufactured rag, value £20, and shall im- 
mediately proceed to destroy some of the 
minor heads of that hydra the dun ; to con- 
quer which the knight need have no Sword 



Shield Cuirass, Cuisses Herbadgeon Spear || 
Casque Greaves Paldrons spurs Chevron or 
any other scaly commodity, but he need 
only take the Bank-note of Faith and Cash J 
of Salvation, and set out against the mon- 
ster, invoking the aid of no Archimago or 
Urganda, but finger me the paper, light as 
the Sibyl's leaves in Virgil, whereat the 
fiend skulks off with his tail between his | 
legs. Touch him with this enchanted paper, ' 
and he whips you his head away as fast 
as a snail's horn — but then the horrid 
propensity he has to put it up again has 
discouraged many very valiant Knights. He 
is such a never-ending still-beginning sort 
of a body — like my landlady of the Bell. 
I should conjecture that the very spright 
that 'the green sour ringlets makes Where- 
of the ewe not bites ' had manufactured it 
of the dew fallen on said sour ringlets. I 
think I could make a nice little allegorical 
poem, called ' The Dun,' where we would 
have the Castle of Carelessness, the draw- 
bridge of credit. Sir Novelty Fashion's 
expedition against the City of Tailors, etc. 
etc. I went day by day at my poem for a 
Month — at the end of which time the other 
day I found my Brain so over-wrought that 
I had neither rhyme nor reason in it — so 
was obliged to give up for a few days. I 
hope soon to be able to resume my work — 
I have endeavoured to do so once or twice ; 
but to no purpose. Instead of Poetry, I 
have a swimming in my head and feel all 
the effects of a Mental debauch, lowness of 
Spirits, anxiety to go on without the power 
to do so, whiih does not at all tend to my 
ultimate progression. However tomorrow 
I will begin my next month. This evening 
I go to Canterbury, having got tired of 
Margate. I was not right in my head when 
I came — At Canterbury I hope the remem- 
brance of Chaucer will set me forward like 
a Billiard Ball. I am glad to hear of Mr. 
T.'s health, and of the welfare of the ' In- 
town-stayers.' And think Reynolds will 
like his Trip — I have some idta of seeing 
the Continent some time this summer. In 



i_. 



TO MARIANE AND JANE REYNOLDS 



263 



repeating how sensible I am of your kind- 
ness, I remain 

Y' obed' serv' and friend John Keats. 

I shall be happy to hear any little intelli- 
gence in the literary or friendly way when 
you have time to scribble. 



10. TO THE SAME 

[London] Tuesday Morn [July 8, 1817]. 

My dear Sirs — I must endeavour to 
lose my maidenhead with respect to money 
Matters as soon as possible — And I will 
too — So, here goes ! A couple of Duns 
that I thought would be silent till the 
beginning, at least, of next month (when I 
am certain to be on my legs, for certain 
sure), have opened upon me with a cry 
most ' untuneable ; ' never did you hear 
such wn-* gallant chiding.' Now you must 
know, I am not desolate, but have, thank 
God, 25 good notes in my fob. But then, 
yon know, I laid them by to write with and 
would stand at bay a fortnight ere they 
should grab me. In a month's time I must 
pay, but it would relieve my mind if I owed 
you, instead of these Pelican duns. 

I am afraid you will say I have ' wound 
about with circumstance,' when I should 
have asked plainly — however as I said I 
am a little maidenish or so, and I feel my 
virginity come strong upon me, the while 
I request the loan of a £20 and a £10, 
which, if you would enclose to me, I would 
acknowledge and save myself a hot fore- 
head. I am sure you are confident of my 
responsibility, and in the sense of square- 
ness that is always in me. 

Your obliged friend John Keats. 



11. TO MARIANE AND JANE REYNOLDS I'' 

Oxf [ord, September 5, 1817]. 
My dear Friends — You are I am glad 
to hear comfortable at Hampton,^^ where I 
hope you will receive the Biscuits we ate 



the other night at Little Britain. I hope 
you found them good. There you are among 
sands, stones. Pebbles, Beeches, Cliffs, 
Rocks, Deeps, Shallows, weeds, ships, Boats 
(at a distance). Carrots, Turnips, sun, 
moon, and stars and all those sort of things 

— here am I among Colleges, halls, Stalls, 
Plenty of Trees, thank God — Plenty of 
water, thank heaven — Plenty of Books, 
thank the Muses — Plenty of Snuff, thank 
Sir Walter Raleigh — Plenty of segars, — 
Ditto — Plenty of flat country, thank Tel- 
lus's rolling-pin. I 'm on the sofa — Buon- 
aparte is on the snuff-box — But you are 
by the seaside — argal, you bathe — you 
walk — you say ' how beautiful ' — find 
out resemblances between waves and camels 

— rocks and dancing-masters — fireshovels 
and telescopes — Dolphins and Madonas — 
which word, by the way, I must acquaint 
you was derived from the Syriac, and came 
down in a way which neither of you I am 
sorry to say are at all capable of compre- 
hending. But as a time may come when by 
your occasional converse with me you may 
arrive at ' something like prophetic strain,' 
I will unbar the gates of my pride and let 
my condescension stalk forth like a ghost 
at the Circus. — The word Ma-don-a, my 
dear Ladies — or — the word Mad — Ona — 
so I say ! I am not mad — Howsumever 
when that aged Tamer Kewthon sold a 
certain camel called Peter to the overseer 
of the Babel Sky-works, he thus spake, 
adjusting his cravat round the tip of his 
chin — ' My dear Ten-story-up-in-air ! this 
here Beast, though I say it as should n't 
say 't, not only has the power of subsisting 
40 days and 40 nights without fire and 
candle but he can sing. — Here I have in 
my Pocket a Certificate from Signor Nico- 
lini of the King's Theatre; a Certificate to 

this effect ' I have had dinner since I 

left that effect upon you, and feel too heavy 
in mentibus to display all the Profundity 
of the Polygon — so you had better each 
of you take a glass of cherry Brandy and 
drink to the health of Archimedes, who was 



264 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



of so benigu a disposition that he never 
would leave Syracuse iu his life — So kept 
himself out of all Kuight-Errautry. — This 
I know to be a fact; for it is written in the 
45th book of Winkine's treatise on garden- 
rollers, that he trod on a fishwoman's toe 
in Liverpool, and never begged her pardon. 
Now the long and short is this — that is by 
comparison — for a long day may be a 
short year — A long Pole may be a very 
stupid fellow as a man. But let us refresh 
ourself from this depth of thinking, and 
turn to some innocent jocularity — the Bow 
cannot always be bent — nor the gun always 
loaded, if you ever let it off — and the life 
of man is like a great Mountain — his breath 
is like a Shrewsbury cake — he comes into 
the world like a shoeblack, and goes out of 
it like a cobbler — he eats like a chimney- 
sweeper, drinks like a gingerbread baker 

— and breathes like Achilles — so it being 
that we are such sublunary creatures, let 
us endeavour to correct all our bad spelling 

— all our most delightful abominations, and 
let us wish health to Mariane and Jane, 
whoever they be and wherever. 

Yours truly John Keats. 



12. TO FANNY KEATS 

Oxford, September 10 [1817]. 

My dear Fanny — Let us now begin a 
regular question and answer — a little pro 
and con; letting it interfere as a pleasant 
method of my coming at your favorite little 
wants and enjoyments, that I may meet 
them in a way befitting a brother. 

We have been so little together since you 
have been able to reflect on things that I 
know not whether you prefer the History 
of King Pepin to Bunyan's Pilgrim's Pro- 
gress — or Cinderella and her glass slipper 
to Moore's Almanack. However in a few 
Letters I hope I shall be able to come at 
.that and adapt my seribblings to your 
Pleasure. You must tell me about all you 
read if it be only six Pages in a Week and 



this transmitted to me every now and then 
will procure you full sheets of Writing from 
me pretty frequently. — This I feel as a 
necessity for we ought to become intimately 
acquainted, in order that I may not only, 
as you grow up love you as my only Sister, 
but contide in you as my dearest friend. 
When I saw you last I told you of my in- 
tention of going to Oxford and 't is now a 
Week since I disembark'd from his Whip- 
ship's Coach the Defiance iu this place. I 
am living in Magdalen Hall on a visit to a 
young Man with whom I have not been 
long acquainted, but whom I like very 
much — we lead very industrious lives — 
he in general Studies and 1 in proceeding 
at a pretty good rate with a Poem which I 
hope you will see early in the next year. — 
Perhaps you might like to know what I am 
writing about. I will tell you. Many Years 
ago there was a young handsome Shepherd 
who fed his flocks on a Mountain's Side 
called Latmus — he was a very contempla- 
tive sort of Person and lived solitary among 
the trees and Plains little thinking that 
such a beautiful Creature as the Moon was 
growing mad in Love with him. — However 
so it was; and when he was asleep on the 
Grass she used to come down from heaven 
and admire him excessively for a long time ; 
and at last could not refrain from carrying 
him away in her arms to the top of that 
high Mountain Latmus while be was a 
dreaming — but I daresay you have read 
this and all the other beautiful Tales which 
have come down from the ancient times of 
that beautiful Greece. If you have not let 
me know and I will tell you more at large 
of others quite as delightful. This Oxford 
I have no doubt is the finest City in the 
world — it is full of old Gothic buildings — 
Spires — towers — Quadrangles — Clois- 
ters — Groves, etc., and is surrounded with 
more clear streams than ever I saw to- 
gether. I take a Walk by the Side of one 
of them every Evening and, thank God, we 
have not had a drop of rain these many 
days. I had a long and interesting Letter 



J_________ 



TO JANE REYNOLDS 



265 



from George, cross lines by a short one from 
Tom yesterday dated Paris. They both 
send their loves to you. Like most English- 
men they feel a mighty preference for 
everything English — the French Meadows, 
the trees, the People, the Towns, the 
Churches, the Books, the everything — al- 
thougli they may be in themselves good: 
yet when put in comparison with our green 
Island they all vanish like Swallows in 
October. They have seen Cathedrals, Man- 
uscripts, Fountains, Pictures, Tragedy, 
Comedy, — with other things you may by 
chance meet with in this Country such as 
Washerwomen, Lamplighters, Turnpike- 
men, Fishkettles, Dancing Masters, Kettle 
drums. Sentry Boxes, Rocking Horses, etc. 
— and, now they have taken them over a 
set of boxing-gloves. 

I have written to George and requested 
him, as you wish I should, to write to you. 
I have been writing very hard lately, even 
till an utter incapacity came on, and I feel it 
now about my head: so you must not mind 
a little out-of-the-way sayings — though by 
the bye were my brain as clear as a bell 
I think I should have a little propensity 
thereto. I shall stop here till I have finished 
the 3d Book of my Story; which I hope will 
be accomplish'd in at most three Weeks from 
to-day — about which time you shall see 
me. How do you like Miss Taylor's essays 
in Rhyme ^^ — I just look'd into the Book 
and it appeared to me suitable to you — 
especially since I remember your liking for 
those pleasant little things the Original 
Poems — the essays are the more mature 
production of the same hand. While I was 
speaking about France it occurred to me to 
speak a few Words on their Language — it 
is perhaps the poorest one ever spoken since 
the jabbering in the Tower of Babel, and 
when you come to know that the real use 
and greatness of a Tongue is to be referred 
to its Literature — you will be astonished to 
find how very in^-rior it is to our native 
Speech. — I wish/>aie Italian would super- 
sede French in e'S» y school throughout the 



Country, for that is full of real Poetry and 
Romance of a kind more fitted for the Plea- 
sure of Ladies than perhaps our own. — It 
seems that the only end to be gained in 
acquiring French is the immense accom- 
plishment of speaking it — it is none at all 
— a most lamentable mistake indeed. Ital- 
ian indeed would sound most musically 
from Lips which had began to pronounce 
it as early as French is crammed down our 
Mouths, as if we were young Jackdaws at 
the mercy of an overfeeding Schoolboy. Now 
Fanny you must write soon — and write all 
you think about, never mind what — only 
let me have a good deal of your writing — 
You need not do it all at once — be two or 
three or four days about it, and let it be a 
diary of your little Life. You will preserve 
all my Letters and I will secure yours — 
and thus in the course of time we shall each 
of us have a good Bundle — which, here- 
after, when things may have strangely al- 
tered and God knows what happened, we 
may read over together and look with plea- 
sure on times past — that now are to come. 
Give my Respects to the Ladies — and so 
my dear Fanny I am ever 

Your most affectionate Brother John. 

If you direct — Post Office, Oxford — 
your Letter will be brought to me. 



13. TO JANE REYNOLDS 

Oxford, Sunday Evg. [September 14, 1817]. 

My dear Jane — You are such a literal 
translator, that I shall some day amuse 
myself with looking over some foreign 
sentences, and imagining how you would 
render them into English. This is an age 
for typical Curiosities; and I would advise 
you, as a good speculation, to study Hebrew, 
and astonish the world with a figurative 
version in our native tongue. The Momi- 
tains skipping like rams, and the little hills 
like lambs, you will leave as far behind as 
the hare did the tortoise. It must be so or 
you would never have thought that 1 really 



266 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



meant you would like to pro and con about 
those Honeycombs — no, I had no such 
idea, or, if I had, 't would be only to tease 
you a little for love. So now let me put 
down in black and white briefly my senti- 
ments thereon. — Imprimis — I sincerely 
believe that Imogen is the finest creature, 
and that I should have been disappointed 
at hearing you prefer Juliet — Item — Yet 
I feel such a yearning towards Juliet that I 
would rather follow her into Pandemonium 
than Imogen into Paradise — heartily wish- 
ing myself a Romeo to be worthy of her, 
and to hear the Devils quote the old pro- 
verb, ' Birds of a feather flock together ' — 
Amen. — 

Now let us turn to the Seashore. Believe 
me, my dear Jane, it is a great happiness to 
see that you are in this finest part of the 
year winning a little enjoyment from the 
hard world. In truth, the great Elements 
we know of, are no mean copiforters: the 
open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire 
crown — the Air is our robe of state — the 
Earth is our throne, and the Sea a mighty 
minstrel playing before it — able, like Da- 
vid's harp, to make such a one as you forget 
almost the tempest cares of life. I have 
found in the ocean's music, — varying (tho 
self-same) more than the passion of Timo- 
theus, an enjoyment not to be put into 
words; and, 'though inland far I be,' I 
now hear the voice most audibly while 
pleasing myself in the idea of your sensa- 
tions. 

is getting well apace, and if you 

have a few trees, and a little harvesting 
about yon, I '11 snap my fingers in Lucifer's 
eye. I hope you bathe too — if you do not, 
I earnestly recommend it. Bathe thrice a 
week, and let us have no more sitting up 
next winter. Which is the best of Shak- 
speare's plays ? I mean in what mood and 
with what accompaniment do you like the 
sea best ? It is very fine in the morning, 
when the sun, 

' Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams, 
Turns into yellow gold his salt sea streams,' 



and superb when 

' The sun from meridian height 
Illumines the depth of the sea, 

And the fishes, beginning to sweat, 
Cry d it ! how hot we shall be,' 

and gorgeous, when the fair planet hastens 

' To his home 
Within the Western foam.' 

But don't you think there is something 
extremely fine after sunset, when there are 
a few white clouds about and a few stars 
blinking — when the waters are ebbing, and 
the horizon a mystery ? This state of things 
has been so fulfilling to me that I am 
anxious to hear whether it is a favourite 
with you. So when you and Marianne club 
your letter to me put in a word or two 
about it. Tell Dilke ^^ that it would be 
perhaps as well if he left a Pheasant or 
Partridge alive here and there to keep up a 
supply of game for next season — tell him 
to rein in if Possible all the Nimrod of his 
disposition, he being a mighty hunter before 
the Lord — of the Manor. Tell him to shoot 
fair, and not to have at the Poor devils in 
a furrow — when they are flying, he may 
fire, and nobody will be the wiser. 

Give my sincerest respects to Mrs. Dilke, 
saying that I have not forgiven myself for 
not having got her the little box of medi- 
cine I promised, and that, had I remained 
at Hampstead I would have made precious 
havoc with her house and furniture — drawn 
a great harrow over her garden — poisoned 
Boxer — eaten her clothes-pegs — fried her 
cabbages — fricaseed (how is it spelt ?) 
her radishes — ragout'd her Onions — 
belaboured her &ea/-root — outstripped her 
scarlet-runners — parlez-vous'd with her 
french-beans — devoured her mignon or 
mignionette — metamorphosed her bell- 
handles — splintered her looking-glasses — 
bullocked at her cups and saucers — ago- 
nised her decanters — put old Phillips to 
pickle in the brine-tub -u- disorganised her 
piano — dislocated her cfmdlesticks — emp- 
tied her wine-bins in aitfit of despair — 



TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 



267 



turned out her maid to grass — and aston- 
ished Brown; whose letter to her on these 
events I would rather see than the original 
Copy of the Book of Genesis. Should you 
see Mr. W. D. remember me to him, and 
to little Robinson Crusoe, and to Mr. Snook. 
Poor Bailey, scarcely ever well, has gone 
to bed, pleased that I am writing to you. 
To your brother John (whom henceforth I 
shall consider as mine) and to you, my dear 
friends, Marianne and Jane, I shall ever 
feel grateful for having made known to me 
so real a fellow as Bailey. He delights 
me in the selfish and (please God) the dis- 
interested part of my disposition. If the 
old Poets have any pleasure in looking 
down at the enjoyers of their works, their 
eyes must bend with a double satisfaction 
upon him. I sit as at a feast when he is 
over them, and pray that if, after my death, 
any of my labours should be worth saving, 
they may have so ' honest a chronicler ' as 
Bailey. Out of this, his enthusiasm iu his 
own pursuit and for all good things is of 
an exalted kind — worthy a more healthful 
frame and an untorn spirit. He must have 
happy years to come — ' he shall not die by 
God.' 

A letter from John the other day was a 
chief happiness to me. I made a little 
mistake when, just now, I talked of being 
far inland. How can that be when Endy- 
mion and I are at the bottom of the sea ? 
whence I hope to bring him in safety before 
you leave the seaside; and, if I can so con- 
trive it. you shall be greeted by him upon 
the sea-sands, and he shall tell you all his 
adventures, which having finished, he shall 
thus proceed — ' My dear Ladies, favourites 
of my gentle mistress, however my friend 
Keats may have teased and vexed you, be- 
lieve me he loves yon not the less — for 
instance, I am deep in his favour, and yet 
he has been hauling me through the earth 
and sea with unrelenting perseverance. I 
know for all this that he is mightj' fond of 
me, by his contriving me all sorts of plea- 
sures. Nor is this the least, fair ladies, this 



one of meeting you on the desert shore, and 
greeting you in his name. He sends you 
moreover this little scroll — ' My dear 
Girls, I send you, per favour of Endymion, 
the assurance of my esteem for you, and my 
utmost wishes for your health and pleasure, 
being ever, 

Your affectionate Brother John Keats. 



14. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 

Oxford, Sunday Morn [September 21, 1817]. 
My dear Reynolds — So you are deter- 
mined to be my mortal foe — draw a Sword 
at me, and I will forgive — Put a Bullet iu 
my Brain, and I will shake it out as a dew- 
drop from the Lion's Mane — put me on a 
Gridiron, and I will fry with great com- 
placency — but — oh, horror ! to come upon 
me iu the shape of a Dun ! Send me bills! 
as I say to my Tailor, send me Bills and 
I '11 never employ you more. However, 
needs must, when the devil drives: and for 
fear of 'before and behind Mr. Honey- 
comb' I'll proceed. I have not time to 
elucidate the forms and shapes of the grass 
and trees; for, rot it! I forgot to bring my 
mathematical ease with me, which unfortu- 
nately contained my triangular Prism so 
that the hues of the grass cannot be dis- 
sected for you — 

For these last five or six days, we have 
had regularly a Boat on the Isis, and ex- 
plored all the streams about, which are 
more in number than your eye-lashes. We 
sometimes skim into a Bed of rushes, and 
there become naturalised river-folks, — 
there is one particularly nice nest, which we 
have christened ' Reynolds's Cove,' in which 
we have read Wordsworth and talked as may 
be. I think I see you and Hunt meeting 
in the Pit. — What a very pleasant fellow 
he is, if he would give up the sovereignty 
of a Room pro bono. What Evenings we 
might pass with him, could we have him 
from Mrs. H. Failings I am always rather 
rejoiced to find in a man than sorry for; 



268 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



they bring us to a Level. He has them, but 
then his makes -up are very good. He 
agrees with the Northern Poet^^ in this, 
' He is not one of those who much delight 
to season their fireside with personal talk ' 
— I must confess however having a little 
itch that way, and at this present moment 
I have a few neighbourly remarks to make. 
The world, and especially our England, 
has, within the last thirty years, been vexed 
and teased by a set of Devils, whom I de- 
test so much that I almost hunger after an 
Acherontic promotion to a Torturer, pur- 
posely for their accommodation. These 
devils are a set of women, who having 
taken a snack or Luncheon of Literary 
scraps, set themselves up for towers of 
Babel in languages, Sapphos in Poetry, 
Euclids in Geometry, and everything in 
nothing. Among such the name of Mon- 
tague has been preeminent. The thing has 
made a very uncomfortable impression on 
me. I had longed for some real feminine 
Modesty in these things, and was therefore 
gladdened in the extreme on opening the 
other day, one of Bailey's Books — a book 
of poetry written by one beautiful Mrs. 
Philips, a friend of Jeremy Taylor's, and 
called ' The Matchless Orinda — ' You must 
have heard of her, and most likely read her 
Poetry — I wish you have not, that I may 
have the pleasure of treating you with a 
few stanzas — I do it at a venture — You 
will not regret reading them once more. 
The following, to her friend Mrs. M. A. at 
parting, you will judge of. 

I have examin'd and do find, 

Of all that favour me 
There 's none I grieve to leave behind 

But only, only thee. 
To part with thee I needs must die, 
Could parting sep'rate thee and I. 

But neither Chance nor Complement 

Did element our Love ; 
'T was sacred sympathy was lent 

Us from the Quire above. 
That Friendship Fortune did create. 
Still fears a womid from Time or Fate. 



Our chang'd and mingled Souls are grown 

To such acquaintance now. 
That if each would resume their own, 

Alas ! we know not how. 
We have each other so engrost, 
That each is in the Union lost. 

And thus we can no Absence know, 

Nor shall we be confin'd ; 
Our active Souls will daily go 

To learn each others mind. 
Nay, should we never meet to Sense, 
Our Souls would hold Intelligence. 

Inspired with a Flame Divine 

I scorn to court a stay ; 
For from that noble Soul of thine 

I ne're can be away. 
But I shall weep when thou dost grieve ; 
Nor can I die whil'st thou dost live. 

By my own temper I shall guess 

At thy felicity. 
And only like my happiness 

Because it pleaseth thee. 
Our hearts at any time will tell 
If thou, or I, be sick, or well. 

All Honour sure I must pretend, 
' A complete AU that is good or great ; 
friend. This She that would be Rosanid's Friend 
very odd?y to Must be at least compleat.i 
me at first. If I have any bravery, 

'T is cause I have so much of thee. 

Thy Leiger Soul in me shall lie, 

And all thy thoughts reveal ; 
Then back again with mine shall flie, 

And thence to me shall steal. 
Thus still to one another tend ; 
Such is the sacred name of Friend. 

Thus our twin-Souls in one shall grow. 
And teach the World new Love, 

Redeem the Age and Sex, and show 
A Flame Fate dares not move : 

And courting Death to be our friend, 

Our Lives together too shall end. 

A Dew shall dwell upon our Tomb 

Of such a quality. 
That fighting Armies, thither come, 

Shall reconciled be. 
We '11 ask no Epitaph, but say 
Orinda and Rosania. 

In other of her poems there is a most 
delicate fancy of the Fletcher kind — which 



TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 



269 



we will con over together. So Haydon is 
in Town. I had a letter from him yester- 
day. We will contrive as the winter comes 
on — but that is neither here nor there. 
Have you heard from Rice ? Has Martin 
met with the Cumberland Beggar, or been 
wondering at the old Leech-gatherer ? Has 
he a turn for fossils ? that is, is he capable 
of sinking up to his Middle in a Morass ? 
How is Hazlitt ? We were reading his 
Table ^^ last night. I know he thinks him- 
self not estimated by ten people in the 
world — I wish he knew he is. I am get- 
ting on famous with my third Book — have 
written 800 luies thereof, and hope to finish 
it next Week. Bailey likes what I have 
done very much. Believe me, my dear Rey- 
nolds, one of my chief layiugs-up is the 
pleasure I shall have in showing it to you, 
I may now say, in a few days. I have 
heard twice from my Brothers, they are 
going on very well, and send their Remem- 
brances to you. We expected to have had 
notices from little-Hampton this morning 
— we must wait till Tuesday. I am glad of 
their Days with the Dilkes. You are, I 
know, very much teased in that precious 
London, and want all the rest possible ; so I 
shall be contented with as brief a scrawl — 
a Word or two, till there comes a pat hour. 

Send us a few of your stanzas to read in 
' Reynolds's Cove.' Give my Love and 
respects to your Mother, and remember me 
kindly to all at home. 

Yours faithfully John Keats. 

I have left the doublings for Bailey, who 
is going to say that he will write to you to- 
morrow. 



15. TO THE SAME 

[Oxford, September, 1817.] 

Wordsworth sometimes, though in a fine 
way, gives us sentences in the style of 
school exercises. — For instance, 

The lake doth fjlitter, 
Small birds twitter. 



Now I think this is an excellent method of 
giving a very clear description of an in- 
teresting place such as Oxford is. 

[Here follows the verses on Oxford, given on 
p. 252.] 

l(j. TO BENJAMIN ROBEKT HAYDON 

Oxford, September 28 [1817]. 
My dear Haydon — I read your letter 
to the young Man, Avhose Name is Cripps. 
He seemed more than ever anxious to avail 
himself of your offer. I think I told you 
we asked him to ascertain his Means. He 
does not possess the Philosopher's stone — 
nor Fortunatus's purse, nor Gyges's ring 

— but at Bailey's suggestion, whom I as- 
sure you is very capital fellow, we have 
stummed up a kind of contrivance whereby 
he will be enabled to do himself the benefits 
you will lay in his Path. I have a great 
Idea that he will be a tolerable neat brush. 
'T is perhaps the finest thing that will befal 
him this many a year: for he is just of an 
age to get grounded in bad habits from 
which you will pluck him. He brought a 
copy of Mary Queen of Scots: it appears 
to me that he has copied the bad style of 
the painting, as well as coloured the eye- 
balls yellow like the original. He has also 
the fault that you pointed out to me in 
Hazlitt on the constringing and diffusing of 
substance. However I really believe that 
he will take fire at the sight of your Picture 

— and set about things. If he can get 
ready in time to return to town with me, 
which will be in a few days — I will bring 
him to you. You will be glad to hear that 
within these last three weeks I have written 
1000 lines — which are the third Book of 
my Poem. M}^ Ideas with respect to it I 
assure you are very low — and I would 
write the subject tlioroughly again — but I 
am tired of it and think the time would 
be better spent in writing a new Romance 
which I have in my eye for next summer — 
Rome was not built in a Day — and all the 
good I expect from my employment this 



270 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



summer is the fruit of Experience which I 
hope to gather in my next Poem. Bailey's 
kindest wishes, and my vow of being 
Yours eternally John Keats. 



17. TO BENJAMIN BAIIiEY 

Hampstead, Wednesday [October 8, 1817]. 

My dear Bailey — After a tolerable 
journey, I went from Coach to Coach as far 
as Hampstead where I found my Brothers 
— the next Morning finding myself toler- 
ably well I went to Lamb's Conduit Street 
and delivered your parcel. Jane and Ma- 
rianne were greatly improved. Marianne 
especially, she has no unhealthy plumpness 
in the face, but she comes me healthy and 
angular to the chin — I did not see John — 
I vras extremely sorry to hear that poor 
Rice, after having had capital health during 
his tour, was very ill. I daresay you have 
heard from him. From No. 19 I went to 
Hunt's and Haydon's who live now neigh- 
bours. — Shelley was there — 1 know no- 
thing about anything in this part of the 
world — every Body seems at Loggerheads. 
There 's Hunt infatuated — there 's Hay- 
don's picture in statu quo — There 's Hunt 
walks up and down his painting room 
criticising every head most unmercifully. 
There 's Horace Smith tired of Hunt. ' The 
web of o)ir life is of mingled yarn.' Hay- 
don having removed entirely from Marl- 
borough Street, Cripps must direct his 
letter to Lisson Grove, North Paddington. 
Yesterday Morning while I was at Brown's, 
in came Reynolds, he was pretty bobbish, 
we had a pleasant day — he would walk 
home at night that cursed cold distance. 
Mrs. Bentley's children are making a 
horrid row — whereby I regret I cannot 
be transported to your Room to write to 
you. I am quite disgusted with literary 
men and will never know another except 
Wordsworth — no not even Byron. Here 
is an instance of the friendship of such. 



Haydon and Hunt have known each other 
many years — now they live, pour ainsi 
dire, jealous neighbours — Haydon says to 
me, Keats, don't show your lines to Hunt 
on any Account, or he will have done half 
for you — so it appears Hunt wishes it to 
be thought. When he met Reynolds in the 
Theatre, John told him that I was getting 
on to the completion of 4000 lines — Ah ! 
says Hunt, had it not been for me they 
would have been 7000 ! If he will say 
this to Reynolds, what would he to other 
people ? Haydon received a Letter a little 
while back on this subject from some Lady 

— which contains a caution to me, through 
him, on the subject — now is not all this a 
most paltry thing to think about ? You 
may see the whole of the case by the follow- 
ing Extract from a Letter I wrote to George 
in the Spring — ' As to what you say about 
my being a Poet, I can return no Answer 
but by saying that the high Idea I have 
of poetical fame makes me think I see it 
towering too high above me. At any rate, 
I have no right to talk until Endymion 
is finished — it will be a test, a trial of 
my Powers of Imagination, and chiefly of 
my invention, which is a rare thing indeed 

— by which I must make 4000 lines of 
one bare circumstance, and fill them with 
poetry : and when I consider that this is a 
great task, and that when done it will take 
me but a dozen paces towards the temple 
of fame — it makes me say — God forbid 
that I should be without such a task ! I 
have heard Hunt say, and I may be asked 

— why endeavour after a long Poem ? To 
which I should answer. Do not the Lovers 
of Poetry like to have a little Region to 
wander in, where they may pick and choose, 
and in which the images are so numerous 
that many are forgotten and found new in 
a second Reading: which may be food for 
a Week's stroll in the Summer ? Do not 
they like this better than what they can 
read through before Mrs. Williams comes 
down stairs? a Morning work at most. 



TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 



271 



' Besides, a long poem is a test of inven- 
tion, which I take to be the Polar star of 
Poetry, as Fancy is the Sails — and Imagi- 
nation the rudder. Did our great Poets 
ever write short Pieces ? I mean in the 
shape of Tales — this same invention seems 
indeed of late years to have been for- 
gotten as a Poetical excellence — But 
enough of this, I put on no Laurels till I 
shall have finished Endymion, and I hope 
Apollo is not angered at my having made a 
Mockery at him at Hunt's ' — 

You see, Bailey, how independent my 
Writing has been. Hunt's dissuasion was 
of no avail — I refused to visit Shelley that 
I might have my own unfettered scope ; — 
and after all, I shall have the Reputa- 
tion of Hunt's 4\hve. His corrections and 
amputations will by the knowing ones be 
traced in the Poem. This is, to be sure, 
the vexation of a day, nor would I say so 
many words about it to any but those whom 
I know to have my welfare and reputation 
at heart. Haydon promised to give direc- 
tions for those Casts, and you may expect 
to see them soon, with as many Letters — 
You will soon hear the dinning of Bells 
— never mind ! you and Gleig ^^ will defy 
the foul fiend — But do not sacrifice your 
health to Books: do take it kindly and not 
so voraciously. I am certain if you are your 
own Physician, your Stomach will resume 
its proper strength and then what great 
benefits will follow. — My sister wrote a 
Letter to me, which I think must be at the 
post-office — Ax Will to see. My Brother's 
kindest remembrances to you — we are 
going to dine at Brown's where I have some 
hopes of meeting Reynolds. The little 
Mercury I have taken has corrected the 
poison and improved my health — though I 
feel from my employment that I shall never 
be again secure in Robustness. Would that 
you were as well as 

Your Sincere friend and brother 

John Keats. 



18. TO THE SAME 

[Hampstead: about November 1, 1817.] 
My dear Bailey — So you have got a 
Curacy — good, but I suppose you will be 
obliged to stop among your Oxford favour- 
ites during Term time. Never mind. 
When do you preach your first sermon ? — 
tell me, for I shall propose to the two 
R.'s ^'^ to hear it, — so don't look into any 
of the old corner oaken pews, for fear of 
being put out by us. Poor Johnny Moultrie 
can't be there. He is ill, I expect — but 
that 's neither here nor there. All I can 
say, I wish him as well through it as I am 
like to be. For this fortnight I have been 
confined at Hampstead. Saturday evening 
was my first day in town, when I went to 
Rice's — as we intend to do every Saturday 
till we know not when. We hit upon an old 
gent we had known some few years ago, and 
had a I'eiry pleasante daye. In this world 
there is no quiet, — nothing but teasing and 
snubbing and vexation. My brother Tom 
looked very unwell yesterday, and I am for 
shipping him off to Lisbon. Perhaps I ship 
there with him. I have not seen Mrs. Rey- 
nolds since I left you, wherefore my con- 
science smites me. I think of seeing her 
tomorrow; have you any message ? I hope 
Gleig came soon after I left. I don't sup- 
pose I 've written as many lines as you 
have read volumes, or at least chapters, 
since I saw you. However, I am in a fair 
way now to come to a conclusion in at least 
three weeks, when I assure you I shall be 
glad to dismount for a month or two ; al- 
though I '11 keep as tiglit a rein as possible 
till then, nor suffer myself to sleep. I will 
copy for you the opening of the Fourth 
Book, in which you will see from the man- 
ner I had not an opportunity of mention- 
ing any poets, for fear of spoiling the effect 
of the passage by particularising them. 

Thus far had I written when I received 
your last, which made me at the sight of 
the direction caper for despair; but for one 



^ 



l']2 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



thing I am glad that I have been neglect- 
ful, and that is, therefrom I have received 
a proof of your utmost kindness, which at 
this present 1 feel very much, and I wish I 
had a heart always open to such sensations; 
but there is no altering a man's nature, and 
mine must be radically wrong, for it will 
lie dormant a whole month. Tliis leads me 
to suppose that there are no men thoroughly 
wicked, so as never to be self-spiritualised 
into a kind of sublime misery; but, alas! 
't is but for an hour. He is the only Man 
'who has kept watch on man's mortality,' 
who has philanthropy enough to overcome 
the disposition to an indolent enjoyment of 
intellect, who is brave enough to volunteer 
for uueomfortable hours. You remember 
in Hazlitt's essay on commonplace people 
he says, ' they read the Edinburgh and 
Quarterly, and think as they do.' Now, 
with respect to Wordsworth's 'Gipsy,' I 
think he is right, and yet I think Hazlitt 
is right, and yet I think Wordsworth is 
Tightest. If Wordsworth had not been idle, 
he had not been without his task; nor had 
the ' Gipsies ' — they in the visible world 
had been as picturesque an object as he in 
the invisible. The smoke of their fire, their 
attitudes, their voices, were all in harmony 
with the evenings. It is a bold thing to say 

— and I would not say it in print — but 
it seems to me that if Wordsworth had 
thought a little deeper at that moment, he 
would not have written the poem at all. I 
should judge it to have been written in one 
of the most comfortable moods of his life 

— it is a kind of sketchy intellectual land- 
scape, not a search after truth, nor is it fair 
to attack him on such a subject ; for it is 
with the critic as with the poet; had Haz- 
litt thought a little deeper, and been in a 
good temper, he would never have spied 
out imaginary faults there. The Sunday 
before last I asked Haydon to dine with 
me, when I thought of settling all matters 
with him, in regard to Cripps, and let you 
know about it. Now, although I engaged 
him a fortnight before, he sent illness as an 



% 



excuse. He never will come. I have not 

Ibeen well enough to stand the chance of a 
wet night, and so have not seen him, nor 
)6eei\ able to expurgatorise more masks for 
you ; but I will not speak — your speakers 
are never doers. Then Reynolds, — every 
time I see him and mention you, he puts 
his hand to his head and looks like a son of 
Niobe's ; but he '11 write soon. 

Rome, you know, was not built in a day. 
I shall be able, by a little perseverance, to 
read your letters off-hand. I am afraid 
your health will suffer from over study be- 
fore your examination. I think you might 
regulate the thing according to your own 
pleasure, — and I would too. They were 
talking of your being up at Christmas. 
Will it be before you have passed ? There 
is nothing, my dear Bailej'^, I should rejoice 
at more than to see you comfortable, with 
a little Peona wife; an affectionate wife, I 
have a sort of confidence, would do you a 
great happiness. May that be one of the 
many blessings I wish you. Let me be but 
the one-tenth of one to you, and I shall 
think it great. My brother George's kindest 
wishes to you. My dear Bailey, I am, 

Your affectionate friend John Keats. 

I should not like to be pages in your 
way ; when in a tolerable hungry mood you 
have no mercy. Your teeth are the Rock 
Tarpeian down which you capsize epic 
poems like mad. I would not for forty 
shillings be Coleridge's Lays in your way. 
I hope you will soon get through this abo- 
minable writing in the schools, and be able 
to keep the terms with more comfort in the 
hope of retiring to a comfortable and quiet 
home out of the way of all Hopkinses and 
black beetles. When you are settled, I will 
come and take a peep at your church, your 
house; try whether I shall have grown too 
lusty for my chair by the fireside, and take 
a peep at my earliest bower. A question is 
the best beacon towards a little speculation. 
Then ask me after my health and spirits. 
This question ratifies in my mind what I 



TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 



273 



have said above. Health and (Spirits can 
only belong unalloyed to the seVtish man — 
the man who thinks much of/ his fellows 
can never be in spirits. You Tiiaust forgive, 
although I have only written three hundred 
lines; they would have been five, but I 
have been obliged to go to town. Yester- 
day I called at Lamb's. Sfc. Jane looked 
very flash when I first looked in, but was 
much better before I left. 



19. TO THE S\ME 

[Fragment from an outside sheet: 
postmark London, November 5, 1817.] 

... I will speak of something else, or 
my spleen will get higher and higher — 
and I am a bearer of the two-edged sword. 
— I hope you will receive an answer from 
Haydon soon — if not, Pride ! Pride ! 
Pride ! I have received no more subscrip- 
tion — but shall soon lave a full health, 
Liberty and leisure to gve a good part of 
my time to him. I will certainly be in time 
for him. We have promissd him one year: 
let that have elapsed, then do as we think 
proper. If I did not know how impossible 
it is, I should say — ' do not at this time 
of disappointments, distiifb yourself about 
others.' 

There has been a fltming attack upon 
Hunt in the Endinburgt Magazine. I never 
read anything so virubnt — accusing him 
of the greatest Crimes, depreciating his 
Wife, his Poetry, his Sabits, his Company, 
his Conversation. Thjse Philippics are to 
come out in numbers — called ' the Cockney 
School of Poetry.' There has been but 
one number published — that on Hunt — to 
which they have prefked a motto from one 
Cornelius Webb Poeaster — who unfortu- 
nately was of our )arty occasionally at 
Hampstead and too: it into his head to 
write the following. — something about 
* we '11 talk on Words/orth, Byron, a theme 
we never tire on;' md so forth till he 
comes to Hunt and Teats. In the Motto 



they have put Hunt and Keats in large 
letters — I have no doubt that the second 
number was intended for me: but have 
hopes of its non-appearance, from the 
following Advertisement in last Sunday's 
Examiner: — ' To Z. — The writer of the 
Article signed Z., in Blackwood's Edin- 
burgh Magazine for October 1817 is invited 
to send his address to the printer of the 
Examiner, in order that Justice may be 
Executed on the proper person.' I don't 
mind the thing much — but if he should go 
to such lengths with me as he has done 
with Hunt, I must infallibly call him to an 
Account if he be a human being, and 
appears in Squares and Theatres, where we 
might possibly meet — I don't relish his 
abuse. . . . 



20. TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE 

[Hampstead, November 1817.] 
My dear Dilke — Mrs. Dilke or Mr. 
Wm. Dilke, whoever of you shall receive 
this present, have the kindness to send pr. 
bearer Sibylline Leaves, and your petitioner 
shall ever pray as in duty bound. 

Given under my hand this Wednesday 
morning of Novr. 1817. John Keats. 
Vivant Rex et Regina — amen. 



21. TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 

[Burford Bridge, November 22, 1817.] 
My dear Bailey — I will get over the 
first part of this (?mpaid) Letter as soon as 
possible, for it relates to the affairs of poor 
Cripps. — To a Man of your nature such 
a Letter as Haydon's must have been 
extremely cutting — What occasions the 
greater part of the World's Quarrels ? — 
simply this — two Minds meet, and do not 
understand each other time enough to pre- 
vent any shock or surprise at the conduct 
of either party — As soon as I had known 
Haydon three days, I had got enough of his 
Character not to have been surprised at 



274 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEA^S 



such a Letter as he has hurt you with. 
Nor, when I knew it, was it a principle 
with me to drop his acquaintance; although 
with you it would have been an imperious 
feelii.g. I wish you knew all that I think 
about Genius and the Heart — and yet L 
think that you are thoroughly acquainted 
with my iunermost breast in that respect, or 
you could not have known me even thus 
long, and still hold me worthy to be your 
dear Friend. In passing, however, I must 
say one thing that has pressed upon me 
lately, and increased my Humility and ca- 
pability of submission — and that is this 
truth — Men of Genius are great as certain 
ethereal Chemicals operating on the Mass 
of neutral intellect — but they have not any 
individuality, any determined Character — 
I would call the top and head of those who 
have a proper self Men of Power. 

But I am running my head into a subject 
which I am certain I could not do justice 
to under five Years' study, and 3 vols, 
octavo — and, moreover, I long to be talk- 
ing about the Imagination — so my dear 
Bailey, do not think of this unpleasant affair, 
if possible do not — I defy any harm to 
come of it — I defy. I shall write to Cripps 
this week, and request him to tell me all 
his goings-on from time to time by Letter 
wherever 1 may be. It will go on well — 
so don't because you have suddenly dis- 
covered a Coldness in Haydon suffer your- 
self to be teased — Do not my dear fellow 
— O ! I wish I was as certain of the end of 
all your troubles as that of your momentary 
start about the authenticity of the Imagi- 
nation. I am certain of nothing but of 
the holiness of the Heart's affections, and 
the truth of Imagination. What the Imagi- 
nation seizes as Beauty must be truth — 
whether it existed before or not, — for I 
have the same idea of all our passions as of 
Love: they are all, in their sublime, crea- 
tive of essential Beauty. In a Word, you 
may know my favourite speculation by my 
first Book, and the little Song ^^ I sent in 
my last, which is a representation from the 



fancy of the; probable mode of operating in 
these Matters. The Imagination may be 
compared to Adam's dream, — he awoke 
and found it .truth : — I am more zealous in 
this affair, bec:ause I 'jave never yet been 
able to perceive how a.iything can be known 
for truth by (3onsecu.ive reasoning — and 
yet it must be. Can^ it be that even the 
greatest, Philosopher ever arrived at his 
Goal wi< Jut putting adde numerous objec- 
tions ? However it may be, O for a life of 
Sensaf )ns rather than of Thoughts ! It is 
' a Vi'ion in the form of Youth,' a shadow 
of re lity to come — And this consideration 
has urther convinced m^, — for it has come 
as auxiliary to another favourite specula- 
tion of mine, — that we shall enjoy our- 
selves hereafter by ha^ ing what we called 
happiness on Earth repeated in a finer tone 
— And yet such a fate can only befall 
those who delight in Sensation, rather 
than hunger as you do after Truth. Adam's 
dream will do here, and seems to be a Con- 
viction that Imagination and its empyreal 
reflection, is the same as human life and its 
spiritual repetition. But, as I was saying, 
the Simple imaginative Mind may have its 
rewards in the repetition of its own silent 
Working coming continually on the Spirit 
with a fine Suddeuiess — to compare great 
things with small, lave you never by being 
surprised with an oli IMelody, in a delicious 
place by a delicious voice, felt over again 
your very speculatiois and surmises at the 
time it first operate! on your soul ? — do 
you not remember fo-ming to yourself the 
Singer's face — more beautiful than it was 
possible, and yet witi the elevation of the 
Moment you did not bink so ? Even then 
you were mounted onthe Wings of Imagi- 
nation, so high that tie prototype must be 
hereafter — that deliaous face you will 
see. What a time ! lam continually run- 
ning away from the subject. Sure this 
cannot be exactly the 'ase with a complex 
mind — one that is im^jinative, and at the 
same time careful of itffruits, — who would 
exist partly on Sensatjn, partly on thought 



TO JvOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 



275 



— to whom it is necessary that years should 
bring the philosophic Mind ? Such a one I 
consider yours, and Iherefore it is neces- 
sary to your eternal happiness that you not 
only drink this old W'ne of Heaven, which 
I shall call the red gestiou of our most 
ethereal Musings up-^n Earth, but also in- 
crease in knowledge and know all things. 
I am glad to hear t lat you are a fair 
way for Easter. Yop will soon get 'irough 
your unpleasant reading, and then ! — but 
the world is full of troubles, and . have 
not much reason to think myself pes ered 
with many. 

I think Jane or Marianne has a be ter 
opinion of me than I deserve: for, really 
and truly, I do not think my Brother's ill- 
ness connected with .nine — you know more 
of the real Cause than they do; nor have I 
any chance of being rack'd as you have 
been. You perhaps at one time thought 
there was such a thing as worldly happiness 
to be arrived at, at certain periods of time 
marked out, — you have of necessity from 
your disposition been thus led away — 
I scarcely remember counting upon any 
Happiness — I look not for it if it be not 
in the present hour, — nothing startles me 
beyond the moment. The Setting Sun will 
always set me to rights, or if a Sparrow 
come before my Window, I take part in its 
existence and pick about the gravel. The 
first thing that strikes me on hearing a 
Misfortune having befallen another is this 

— * Well, it cannot be helped : he will have 
the pleasure of trying the resources of his 
Spirit ' — and I beg now, my dear Bailey, 
that hereafter should you obsetve anything 
cold in me not to put it to the account of 
heartlessness, but abstraction — for I assure 
you I sometimes feel not the influence of a 
passion or affection during a whole Week 

— and so long this sometimes continues, I 
begin to suspect myself, and the genuine- 
ness of my feelings at other times — think- 
ing them a few barren Tragedy Tears. 

My brother Tom is much improved — he 
is going to Devonshire — whither I shall 



follow him. At present, I am just arrived 
at Dorking — to change the Scene — change 
the Air, and give me a spur to wind up my 
Poem, of which there are wanting 500 lines. 
I should have been here a day sooner, but 
the Reynoldses persuaded me to stop in 
Town to meet your friend Christie. ^^ There 
were Rice and Martin — we talked about 
Ghosts. I will have some Talk with Taylor 
and let you know, — when please God I 
come down at Christmas. I will find that 
Examiner if possible. My best regards to 
Gleig, my Brothers' to you and Mrs. 
Bentley. 

Your affectionate Friend John Keats. 

I want to say much more to you — a few 
hints will set me going. Direct Burford 
Bridge near Dorking. 

22. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 

[Burford Bridge,] November 22, 1817. 
My dear Reynolds — There are two 
things which tease me here — one of them 
Cripps, and the other that I cannot go with 
Tom into Devonshire. However, I hope 
to do my duty to myself in a week or so; 
and then I '11 try what I can do for my 
neighbour — now, is not this virtuous? On 
returning to Town I '11 damm all Idleness 
— indeed, in superabundance of employ- 
ment, I must not be content to run here 
and there on little two-penny errands, but 
turn Rakehell, i. e. go a masking, or Bailey 
will think me just as great a Promise 
Keeper as he thinks you; for myself I do 
not, and do not remember above one com- 
plaint against you for matter o' that. Bailey 
writes so abominable a hand, to give his 
Letter a fair reading requires a little time: 
so I had not seen, when I saw you last, his 
invitation to Oxford at Christmas. I '11 go 
with you. You know how poorly Rice was. 
I do not think it was all corporeal, — bod- 
ily pain was not used to keep him silent. 
I'll tell you what; he was hurt at what 
your Sisters said about his joking with your 
Mother, he was, soothly to sain. It will all 



276 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



blow over. God knows, my dear Reynolds, 
I should not talk any sorrow to you — you 
must have enough vexations — so I won't 
any more. If I ever start a rueful subject 
in a letter to you — blow me ! Why don't 
you ? — now I am going to ask you a very 
silly Question neither you nor anybody else 
could answer, under a folio, or at least a 
Pamphlet — you shall judge — why don't 
you, as I do, look unconcerned at what may 
be called more particularly Heart-vexa- 
tions ? They never surprise me — lord ! 
a man should have the fine point of his 
soul taken off to become fit for this world. 
I like this place very much. There is 
Hill and Dale and a little River. I went 
up Box hill this Evening after the Moon — 
' you a' seen the Moon ' — came down, and 
wrote some lines. Whenever I am sepa- 
rated from you, and not engaged in a con- 
tinued Poem, every letter shall bring you 
a lyric — but I am too anxious for you to 
enjoy the whole to send you a particle. 
One of the three books I have with me 
is Shakspeare's Poems: I never found so 
many beauties in the sonnets — they seem 
to be full of fine things said unintentionally 
— in the intensity of working out conceits. 
Is this to be borne ? Hark ye ! 

' When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, 
Which erst from heat did canopy the head, 

And Summer's green all girded up in sheaves, 
Borne on the bier with white and bristly 
head.' 

He has left nothing to say about nothing or 
anything: for look at snails — you know 
what he says about Snails — you know when 
he talks about ' cockled Snails ' — well, in 
one of these sonnets, he says — the chap 
slips into — no ! I lie ! this is in the Venus 
and Adonis: the simile brought it to my 
Mind. 

' As the snail, whose tender horns being hit, 
Shrinks back into his shelly cave with pain, 

And there all smothered up in shade doth sit, 
Long after fearing to put forth again ; 

So at his bloody view her eyes are fled. 

Into the deep dark Cabins of her head.' 



He overwhelms a genuine Lover of poesy 
with all manner of abuse, talking about — 

' a poet's rage 
And stretched metre of an antique song.' 

Which, by the bye, will be a capital motto 
for my poem, won't it ? He speaks too of 
' Time's antique pen ' — and * April's first- 
born flowers ' — and ' Death's eternal cold.' 
— By the Whim-King ! I '11 give you a 
stanza, because it is not material in connec- 
tion, and when I wrote it I wanted you — 
to give your vote, pro or con. — 

[Here follow lines 581-590, Book IV. of 
EndymionJ\ 

... I see there is an advertisement in the 
Chronicle to Poets — he is so over-loaded 
with poems on the ' late Princess.' I suppose 
you do not lack — send me a few — lend 
me thy hand to laugh a little — send me a 
little pullet-sperm, a few finch-eggs — and 
remember me to each of our card-playing 
Club. When you die you will all be turned 
into Dice, and be put in pawn with the 
devil: for cards, they crumble up like any- 
thing. . . . 

I rest Your affectionate friend 

John Keats. 

Give my love to both houses — hinc atque 
illinc. 

23. TO GEORGE AND THOMAS KEATS 

Hampstead, December 22, 1817. 
My dear Brothers — I must crave 
your pardon for not having written ere 
this. ... I saw Kean return to the public 
in Richard III., and finely he did it, and, 
at the request of Reynolds, I went to criti- 
cise his Duke in Rich*' — the critique is in 
to-day's Champion, which I send you with 
the Examiner, in which you will find very 
proper lamentation on the obsoletion of 
Christmas Gambols and pastimes : but it 
was mixed up with so much egotism of that 
drivelling nature that pleasure is entirely 
lost. Hone the publisher's trial, you must 
find very amusing, and as Englishmen very 



TO GEORGE AND THOMAS KEATS 



277 



eucouraging: his Not Guilty is a thing, 
which not to have been, woukl have dulled 
still more Liberty's Emblazoning — Lord 
Ellenborough has been paid in his own coin 
— Wooler and Hone have done us an 
essential service. I have had two very 
pleasant evenings with Dilke yesterday and 
to-day, and am at this moment just come 
from him, and feel in the humour to go on 
with this, begun in the morning, and from 
which he came to fetch me. I spent Friday 
evening with Wells ^<* and went next morn- 
ing to see Death on the Pale horse. It is a 
wonderful picture, when West's age is con- 
sidered ; but there is nothing to be intense 
upon, no women one feels mad to kiss, no 
face swelling into reality. The excellence 
of every art is its intensity, capable of 
making all disagreeables evaporate from 
their being in close relationship with Beauty 
and Truth — Examine King Lear, and you 
will find this exemplified throughout; but 
in this picture we have unpleasantness 
without any momentous depth of specula- 
tion excited, in vphich to bury its repulsive- 
ness — The picture is larger than Christ 
rejected. 

I dined with Haydon the Sunday after 
you left, and had a very pleasant day. I 
dined too (for I have been out too much 
lately) with Horace Smith and met his two 
Brothers with Hill and Kingston and one 
Du Bois, they only served to convince me 
how superior humour is to wit, in respect to 
enjoyment — These men say things which 
make one start, without making one feel, 
they are all alike ; their manners are alike ; 
they all know fashionables ; they have all 
a mannerism in their very eating and 
drinking, in their mere handling a De- 
canter. They talked of Kean and his low 
company — would I were with that com- 
pany instead of yours said I to myself ! 
I know such like acquaintance will never 
do for me and yet I am going to Reynolds, 
on Wednesday. Brown and Dilke walked 
with me and back from the Christmas pan- 
tomime. I had not a dispute, but a dis- 



quisition, with Dilke upon various subjects; 
several things dove-tailed in my mind, and 
at once it struck nie what quality went to 
form a Man of Achievement, especially in 
Literature, and which Shakspeare possessed 
so enormously — I mean Negative Capabil- 
ity, that is, when a man is capable of being 
in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without 
any irritable reaching after fact and rea- 
son. Coleridge, for instance, would let go 
by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught 
from the Penetralium of mystery, from 
being incapable of remaining content with 
half-knowledge. This pursued through vol- 
umes would perhaps take us no further than 
this, that with a great poet the sense of 
Beauty overcomes every other considera- 
tion, or rather obliterates all consideration. 
Shelley's poem -^ is out and there are 
words about its being objected to, as much 
as Queen Mab was. Poor Shelley I think 
he has his Quota of good qualities, in sooth 
la ! Write soon to your most sincere friend 
and aft'ectionate Brother 

John. 



24. TO THE SAME 

Featherstone Buildings, 

Monday [January 5, 1818]. 
My dear Brothers — I ought to have 
written before, and you should have had a 
long letter last week, but I undertook the 
Champion for Reynolds, who is at Exeter. 
1 wrote two articles, one on the Drury Lane 
Pantomime, the other on the Covent Garden 
new Tragedy, 22 which they liave not put 
in; the one they have inserted is so badly 
punctuated that you perceive I am deter- 
mined never to write more, without some 
care in that particular. Wells tells me 
that you are licking your chops, Tom, in 
expectation of my book coming out. I am 
sorry to say I have not begun my correc- 
tions yet : to-morrow I set out. I called 
on Sawrey this morning. He did not seem 
to be at all put out at anything I said and 
the inquiries I made with regard to your 



278 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



spitting of blood, and moreover desired me 
to ask you to seud him a correct account of 
all your sensations and symptoms concern- 
ing the palpitation and the spitting and the 
cough — if you have any. Your last letter 
gave me a great pleasure, for I think the 
invalid is in a better spirit there along the 
Edge; and as for George, I must immedi- 
ately, now I think of it, correct a little mis- 
conception of a part of my last letter. The 
Misses Reynolds have never said one word 
against me about you, or by any means 
endeavoured to lessen you in my estima- 
tion. That is not what I referred to; but 
the manner and thoughts which I knew 
they internally had towards you, time will 
show. Wells and Severn dined with me 
yesterday. We had a very pleasant day. 
I pitched upon another bottle of claret, we 
enjoyed ourselves very much; were all very 
witty and full of Rhymes. We played a 
concert-^ from 4 o'clock till 10 — drank 
your healths, the Hunts', and (N.B.) seven 
Peter Pindars. I said on that day the only 
good thing I was ever guilty of. We were 
talking about Stephens and the 1st Gallery. 
I said I wondered that careful folks would 
go there, for although it was but a shilling, 
still you had to pay through the Nose. I 
saw the Peachey family in a box at Drury 
one night. I have got such a curious . . . 
or rather I had such, now I am in my own 
hand . 

I have had a great deal of pleasant time 
with Rice lately, and am getting initiated 
into a little band. They call drinking deep 
dyin' scarlet. They call good wine a pretty 
tipple, and call getting a child knocking out 
an apple; stopping at a tavern they call 
hanging out. Where do you sup ? is where 
do you hang out ? 

Thursday I promised to dine with Words- 
worth, and the weather is so bad that I am 
undecided, for he lives at Mortimer Street. 
I had an invitation to meet him at Kings- 
ton's, but not liking that place I sent my 
excuse. What I think of doing to-day is 
to dine in Mortimer Street (Words""), and 



sup here in the Feath^ buildings, as Mr. 
Wells has invited me. On Saturday, I 
called on Wordsworth before he went to 
Kingston's, and was surprised to find him 
with a stiff collar. I saw his spouse, and I 
think his daughter. I forget whether I had 
wi'itten my last before my Sunday evening 
at Haydon's — no, I did not, or I should 
have told you, Tom, of a young man you 
met at Paris, at Scott's, . . . Ritchie. I 
think he is going to Fezan, in Africa; then 
to proceed if possible like Mungo Park. 
He was very polite to me, and inquired 
very particularly after you. Then there was 
Wordsworth, Lamb, Monkhouse, Landseer, 
Kingston, and your humble servant. Lamb 
got tipsy and blew up Kingston — proceed- 
ing so far as to take the candle across the 
room, hold it to his face, and show us what 
a soft fellow he was.^* I astonished Kings- 
ton at supper with a pertinacity in favour 
of drinking, keeping my two glasses at 
work in a knowing way. 

I have seen Fanny twice lately — she in- 
quired particularly after you and wants a 
co-partnership letter from you. She has 
been unwell, but is improving. I think she 
will be quick. Mrs. Abbey was saying that 
the Keatses were ever indolent, that they 
would ever be so, and that it is born in 
them. Well, whispered Fanny to me, if it 
is born with us, how can we help it ? She 
seems very anxious for a letter. As I asked 
her what I should get for her, she said a 
' Medal of the Princess.' ^^ I called on 
Haslam — we dined very snugly together. 
He sent me a Hare last week, which I sent 
to Mrs. Dilke. Brown is not come back. 
I and Dilke are getting capital friends. He 
is going to take the Champion. He has 
sent his farce to Covent Garden. I met 
Bob Harris -^ on the steps at Covent 
Garden; we had a good deal of curious chat. 
He came out with his old humble opinion. 
The Covent Garden pantomime is a very 
nice one, but they have a middling Harle- 
quin, a bad Pantaloon, a worse Clown, and 
a shocking Columbine, who is one of the 



TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 



279 



Miss Dennets. I suppose you will see my 
critique on the new tragedy in the next 
week's Champion. It is a shocking bad 
one. I have not seen Hunt; he was out 
when I called. Mrs. Hunt looks as well as 
ever I saw her after her confinement. 
There is an article in the se'nnight Exam- 
iner on Godwin's Mandeville, signed E. 
K. — I think it Miss Kent's '^'' — I will send 
it. There are fine subscriptions going on 
for Hone. 

You ask me what degrees there are be- 
tween Scott's novels and those of Smollett. 
They appear to me to be quite distinct in 
every particular, more especially in their 
aims. Scott endeavours to throw so inter- 
esting and romantic a colouring into com- 
mon and low characters as to give them a 
touch of the sublime. Smollett on the con- 
trary pulls down and levels what with other 
men would continue romance. The grand 
parts of Scott are within the reach of more 
minds than the finest humours in Humphrey 
Clinker. I forget whether that fine thing 
of the Serjeant is Fielding or Smollett, but 
it gives me more pleasure than the whole 
novel of the Anti(;[uary. You must remem- 
ber what I mean. Some one says to the 
Serjeant: 'That's a non-sequitur ! ' — 'If 
you come to that,' replies the Serjeant, 
' you 're another ! ' — 

I see by Wells's letter Mr. Abbey -^ does 
not overstock you with money. Yon must 
write. I have not seen . . . yet, but expect 
it on Wednesday. I am afraid it is gone. 
Severn tells me he has an order for some 
drawings for the Emperor of Russia. 

You must get well Tom, and then I shall 

Peel whole and genial as the winter air. 

ixive me as many letters as you like, and 

SLrrite to Sawrey soon. I received a short 

do»tter from Bailey about Cripps, and one 

toc:ora Haydon, ditto. Haydon thinks he 

abtiproved very much. Mrs. Wells desires 

tieirticularly ... to Tom and her respects 

s a George, and I desire no better than to 

g 6 ever your most affectionate Brother 

.d John. 



P. S. — I had not opened the Champion 
before I found both my articles in it. 

I was at a dance at Redhall's, and passed 
a pleasant time enough — drank deep, and 
won 10/6 at cutting for half guineas. . . . 
Bailey was there and seemed to enjoy the 
evening. Rice said he cared less about 
the hour than any one, and the proof is his 
dancing — he cares not for time, dancing as 
if he was deaf. Old Redhall not being used 
to give parties, had no idea of the quantity 
of wine that would be drank, and he ac- 
tually put in readiness on the kitchen stairs 
eight dozen. 

Every one inquires after you, and desires 
their remembrances to you. 

Your Brother John. 

25, TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 

[Hampstead,] Saturday Morn 
[January 10, 1818]. 

My dear Haydon — I should have 
seen you ere this, but on account of my 
sister being in Town: so that when I have 
sometimes made ten paces towards you, 
Fanny has called me into the City; and the 
Christmas Holydays are your only time to 
see Sisters, that is if they are so situated as 
mine. I will be with you early next week 
— to-night it should be, but we have a sort 
of a Club every Saturday evening — to- 
morrow, but I have on that day an insuper- 
able engagement. Cripps has been down 
to me, and appears sensible that a binding 
to you would be of the greatest advantage 
to him — if such a thing be done it cannot 
be before £150 or £200 are secured in sub- 
scriptions to him. I will write to Bailey 
about it, give a Copy of the Subscribers' 
names to every one I know who is likely to 
get a £5 for him. I will leave a Copy at 
Taylor and Hessey's, Rodwell and Martin, 
and will ask Kingston and Co. to cash up. 

Your friendship for me is now getting 
into its teens — and I feel the past. Also 
every day older I get — the greater is my 
idea of your achievements in Art: and I 



28o 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



am convinced that there are three things to 

rejoice at in this Age — The Excursion, 

Your Pictures, and Hazlitt's depth of Taste. 

Yours affectionately John Keats. 



26. TO JOHN TAYLOR 

[Hampstead,] Saturday Morning 
[January 10, 1818]. 

My dear Taylor — Several things have 
kept me from you lately: — first you had 
got into a little hell, which I was not anx- 
ious to reconnoitre — secondly, I have made 
a vow not to call again without my first 
book: so you may expect to see me in four 
days. Thirdly, 1 have been racketing too 
much, and do not feel over well. I have seen 
Wordsworth frequently — Dined with him 
last Monday — Reynolds, I suppose you 
have seen. Just scribble me thus many 
lines, to let me know you are in the land 
of the living, and well. Remember me to 
the Fleet Street Household — and should 
you see any from Percy Street, give my 
kindest regards to them. 

Your sincere friend John Keats. 



27. TO GEORGE AND THOMAS KEATS 

[Hampstead,] Tuesday [January 13, 1818]. 

My dear Brothers — I am certain I 
think of having a letter to-morrow morning 
for I expected one so much this morning, 
having been in town two days, at the end 
of which my expectations began to get up a 
little. I found two on the table, one from 
Bailey and one from Haydon, I am quite 
perplexed in a world of doubts and fancies 
— there is nothing stable in the world; 
uproar 's your only music — I don't mean 
to include Bailey in this and so dismiss him 
from this with all the opprobrium he de- 
serves — that is in so many words, he is 
one of the noblest men alive at the present 
day. In a note to Haydon about a week 
ago (which I wrote with a full sense of 
what he had done, and how he had never 
manifested any little mean drawback in his 



value of me) I said if there were three 
things superior in the modern world, they 
were ' the Excursion,' ' Haydon's pictures,' 
and ' Hazlitt's depth of Taste ' — so I do 
believe — Not thus speaking with any poor 
vanity that works of genius were the first 
things in this world. No ! for that sort 
of probity and disinterestedness which such 
men as Bailey possess, does hold and grasp 
the tiptop of any spiritual honours that can 
be paid to anything in this world — And 
moreover having this feeling at this present 
come over me in its full force, I sat down to 
write to you with a grateful heart, in that 
I had not a Brother who did not feel and 
credit me for a deeper feeling and devotion 
for his uprightness, than for any marks of 
genius however splendid. I was speaking 
about doubts and fancies — I mean there 
has been a quarrel of a severe nature be- 
tween Haydon and Reynolds and another 
(' the Devil rides upon a fiddlestick') be- 
tween Hunt and Haydon — the first grew 
from the Sunday on which Haydon invited 
some friends to meet Wordsworth. Rey- 
nolds never went, and never sent any Notice 
about it, this offended Haydon more than it 
ought to have done — he wrote a very 
sharp and high note to Reynolds and then 
another in palliation — but which Reynolds 
feels as an aggravation of the first — Con- 
sidering all things, Haydon's frequent neg- 
lect of his Appointments, etc. his notes 
were bad enough to put Reynolds on the 
right side of the question — but then Rf^y- 
nolds has no power of sufferance; no idea 
of having the thing against him; so he an- 
swered Haydon in one of the most cutting 
letters I ever read; exposing to himself all 
his own weaknesses and going on to a^i 
excess, which whether it is just or no, iet 
what I would fain have unsaid, the faint 
is, they are both in the right and both at. 
the wrong. >ii> 

The quarrel with Hunt I understand th^ry 
far. Mrs. H. was in the habit of borrow: ("le- 
silver of Haydon — the last time she find 
so, Haydon asked her to return it a the 



TO GEORGE AND THOMAS KEATS 



281 



certain time — she did not — Haydon sent 
for it — Hunt went to expostulate ou the 
indelicacy, etc. — they got to words and 
parted for ever. All I hope is at some 
time to bring them together again. — Lawk! 
Molly there 's been such doings — Yester- 
day evening I made an appointment with 
Wells to go to a private theatre, and it 
being in the neighbourhood of Drury Lane, 
and thinking we might be fatigued with 
sitting the whole evening in one dirty hole, 
I got the Drury Lane ticket, and therewith 
we divided the evening with a spice of 
Richard III 

[Later, January 19 or 20.] 
Good Lord ! I began this letter nearly a 
week ago, what have I been doing since — 
I have been — I mean not been — sending 
last Sunday's paper to you. I believe be- 
cause it was not near me — for I cannot 
find it, and my conscience presses heavy on 
me for not sending it. You would have 
had one last Thursday, but I was called 
away, and have been about somewhere ever 
since. Where ? What ! Well I rejoice 
almost that I have not heard from you be- 
cause no news is good news. I cannot for 
the world recollect why I was called away, 
all I know is that there has been a dance at 
Dilke's, and another at the Loudon Coffee 
House; to both of which I went. But I 
must tell you in another letter the circum- 
stances thereof — for though a week should 
have passed since I wrote on the other side 
it quite appals me. I can only write in 
scraps and patches. Brown is returned 
from Hampstead. Haydon has returned an 
answer in the same style — they are all 
dreadfully irritated against each other. On 
Sunday I saw Hunt and dined with Hay- 
don, met Hazlitt and Bewick there, and 
took Haslam with me — forgot to speak 
about Cripps though I broke my engage- 
ment to Haslam's on purpose. Mem. — 
Haslam came to meet me, found me at 
Breakfast, had the goodness to go with me 
my way — I have just finished the revision 



of my first book, and shall take it to Tay- 
lor's to-morrow — intend to persevere — 
Do not let me see many days pass without 
hearing from you. 

Your most affectionate Brother John. 



28. TO JOHN TAYLOR 

[Hampstead,] Friday 23d [January 1818]. 

My deak Taylor — I have spoken to 
Haydon about the drawing. He would do 
it with all his Art and Heart too, if so I 
will it ; however, he has written thus to 
me ; but I must tell you, first, he intends 
painting a finished Picture from the Poem. 
Thus he writes — ' When I do anything for 
your Poem it must be effectual — an honour 
to both of us : to hurry up a sketch for the 
season won't do. I think an engraving from 
your head, from a Chalk drawing of mine, 
done with all my might, to which I would 
put my name, would answer Taylor's idea 
better than the other. Indeed, I am sure 
of it. This I will do, and this will be ef- 
fectual, and as I have not done it for any 
other human being, it will have an effect.' 

What think you of this ? Let me hear. 
I shall have my second Book in readiness 
forthwith. 

Yours most sincerely John Keats. 

If Reynolds calls tell him three lines 
will be acceptable, for I am squat at Hamp- 
stead. 



29. TO GEORGE AND THOJL\S KEATS 

[Hampstead,] Friday 23d January [1818]. 
My DEAR Brothers — I was thinking 
what hindered me from writing so long, for 
I have so many things to say to you, and 
know not where to begin. It shall be upon 
a thing most interesting to you, my Poem. 
Well ! I have given the first Book to Tay- 
lor; he seemed more than satisfied with it, 
and to my surprise proposed publishing it 
in Quarto if Haydon would make a drawing 
of some event therein, for a Frontispiece. 



282 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



I called on Haydon, he said he would do 
anything I liked, but said he would rather 
paint a finished picture, from it, which he 
seeuis eager to do; this iu a year or two 
will be a glorious thing for us; and it will 
be, for Haydon is struck with the 1st Book. 
I left Haydon and the next day received a 
letter from him, proposing to make, as he 
says, with all his might, a finished chalk 
sketch of my head, to be engraved in the 
first style and put at the head of my Poem, 
saying at the same time he had never done 
the thing for any human being, and that it 
must have considerable effect as he will put 
his name to it — I begin to-day to copy my 
2nd Book — ' thus far into the bowels of 
the land ' — You shall hear whether it will 
be Quarto or non Quarto, picture or non 
picture. Leigh Hunt I showed my 1st Book 

to he allows it not much merit as a 

whole; says it is unnatural and made ten 
objections to it in the mere skimming over. 
He says the conversation is unnatural and 
too high-flown for Brother and Sister — 
says it should be simple forgetting do ye 
mind that they are both overshadowed by 
a supernatural Power, and of force could 
not speak like Francesca in the Rimini. He 
must first prove that Caliban's poetry is 
unnatural — Tliis with me completely over- 
turns his objections — the fact is he and 
Shelley are hurt, and perhaps justly, at my 
not having showed them the affair offi- 
ciously and from several hints I have had 
they appear much disposed to dissect and 
anatomise any trip or slip I may have made. 
— But who 's afraid ? Ay ! Tom ! Demme 
if I am. I went last Tuesday, an hour too 
late, to Hazlitt's Lecture on poetry, got 
there just as they were coming out, when 
all these pounced upon me. Hazlitt, John 
Hunt and Son, Wells, Bewick, all the 
Landseers, Bob Harris, aye and more — 
the Landseers enquired after yon partic- 
ularly — I know not whether Wordsworth 
has left town — But Sunday I dined with 
Hazlitt and Haydon, also that I took Has- 



1am with me — I dined with Brown lately. 
Dilke having taken tbe Champion Theatri- 
cals was obliged to be in town — Fanny has 
returned to Walthamstow. — Mr. Abbey 
appeared very glum, the last time I went 
to see her, and said in an indirect way, that 
I had no business there — Rice has been ill, 
but has been mending much lately — 

I think a little change has taken place in 
my intellect lately — I cannot bear to be 
uninterested or unemployed, I, who for so 
long a time have been addicted to passive- 
ness. Nothing is finer for the purposes of 
great productions than a very gradual ripen- 
ing of the intellectual powers. As an in- 
stance of this — observe — I sat down yes- 
terday to read King Lear once again: the 
thing appeared to demand the prologue of 
a sonnet, I wrote it, and began to read — 
(I know you would like to see it.) 

[Here follows the Sonnet, for which see p. 
40.] 

So you see I am getting at it, with a 
sort of determination and strength, though 
verily I do not feel it at this moment — 
this is my fourth letter this morning, and 
I feel rather tired, and my head rather 
swimming — so I will leave it open till to- 
morrow's post. — 

1 am in the habit of taking my papers 
to Dilke's and copying there ; so I chat 
and proceed at the same time. I have been 
there at my work this evening, and the 
walk over the Heath takes off all sleep, so 
I will even proceed with you. I left off 
short in my last jiist as I began an account 
of a private theatrical — Well it was of the 
lowest order, all greasy and oily, insomuch 
that if they had lived in olden times, when 
signs were hung over the doors, the only 
appropriate one for that oily place would 
have been — a guttered Candle. They 
played John Bull, The Review, and it was 
to conclude with Bombastes Furioso — I 
saw from a Box the first Act of John Bull, 
then went to Drury and did not return till 



TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 



283 



it was over — when by Wells's interest we 
got behind the scenes — there was not a 
yard wide all the way round for actors, 
scene-shifters, and interlopers to move in 

— for ' Nota Bene ' the Green Room was 
under the stage, and there was I threatened 
over and over again to be turned out by 
the oily scene-shifters, there did I hear a 
little painted Trollop own, very candidly, 
that she bad failed in Mar}', with a ' damn'd 
if she 'd play a serious part again, as long- 
as she lived,' and at the same time she was 
habited as the Quaker in the Review. — 
Tliere was a quarrel, and a fat good- 
natured looking girl in soldiers' clothes 
wished she had only been a man for Tom's 
sake. One fellow began a song, but an un- 
lucky finger-point from the Gallery sent him 
off like a shot. One chap was dressed to 
kill for the King in Bombastes, and he 
stood at the edge of the scene in the very 
sweat of anxiety to show himself, but Alas 
the thing was not played. The sweetest 
morsel of the night moreover was, that the 
musicians began pegging and fagging away 

— at an overture — never did you see faces 
more in earnest, three times did they play 
it over, dropping all kinds of corrections 
and still did not the curtain go up. Well 
then they went into a country dance, then 
into a region they well knew, into the old 
boonsome Pothouse, and then to see how 
pompous o' the sudden they turned; how 
they looked about and chatted; how they 
did not care a damn; was a great treat 

I hope I have not tired you by this filliag 
up of the dash in my last. Constable the 
bookseller has offered Reynolds ten guineas 
a sheet to write for his Magazine — it is an 
Edinburgh one, which Blackwood's started 
up in opposition to. Hunt said he was 
nearly sure that the ' Cockney School ' was 
written by Scott ^ so you are right Tom ! 

— There are no more little bits of news I 
can remember at present. 

I remain. My dear Brothers, Your very 
affectionate Brother John. 



30. TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 

[Hampstead,] Friday Jan^- 23 [1818]. 
My dear Bailey — Twelve days have 
pass'd since your last reached me. — What 
has gone through the myriads of human 
minds since the 12th ? We talk of the im- 
mense Number of Books, the Volumes 
ranged thousands by thousands — but per- 
haps more goes through the human intelli- 
gence in Twelve days than ever was written. 

— How has that unfortunate family lived 
through the twelve? One saying of yours I 
shall never forget — you may not recollect 
it — it being perhaps said when you were 
looking on the Surface and seeming of 
Humanity alone, without a thought of the 
past or the future — or the deeps of good 
and evil — you were at that moment 
estranged from speculation, and I think 
you have arguments ready for the Man 
who would utter it to you — this is a for- 
midable preface for a simple thing — merely 
you said, ' Why should ivoman suffer ? ' Aye, 
why should she ? ' By heavens I 'd coin 
my very Soul, and drop my Blood for 
Drachmas ! ' These things are, and he, 
who feels how incompetent the most skyey 
Knight-errantry is to heal this bruised fair- 
ness, is like a sensitive leaf on the hot hand 
of thought. — Your tearing, my dear 
friend, a spiritless and gloomy letter up, 
to re-write to me, is what I shall never 
forget — it was to me a real thing — Things 
have happened lately of great perplexity 

— you must have heard of them — Rey- 
nolds and Haydon retorting and recrimi- 
nating — and parting for ever — the same 
thing has happened between Haydon and 
Hunt. It is unfortunate — Men should 
bear with each other: there lives not the 
Man who may not be cut up, aye Lashed to 
pieces on his weakest side. The best of 
Men have but a portion of good in them — 
a kind of spiritual yeast in their frames, 
which creates the ferment of existence — 
by which a Man is propelled to act, and 
strive, and buffet with Circumstance. The 



284 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



sure way, Bailey, is first to know a Man's 
faults, and then be passive — if after that 
he insensibly draws you towards him then 
you have no power to break the link. Be- 
fore I felt interested in either Reynolds or 
Haydou, I was well read in their faults; 
yet, knowing them, I have been cementing 
gradually with both. I have an affection 
for them both, for reasons almost opposite 
— and to both must I of necessity cling, 
supported always by the hope that, when a 
little time, a few years, shall have tried me 
more fully in their esteem, I may be able 
to bring them together. The time must 
come, because they have both hearts: and 
they will recollect the best parts of each 
other, when this gust is overblown. — I had 
a message from you through a letter to 
Jane — I think, about Cripps — there can 
be no idea of binding until a sufficient sum 
is sure for him — and even then the thing 
should be maturely considered by all his 
helpers — I shall try my luck upon as many 
fat purses as 1 can meet with. — Cripps is 
improving very fast: I have the greater 
hopes of him because he is so slow in devel- 
opment. A Man of great executing powers 
at 20, with a look and a speech almost 
stupid, is sure to do something. 

I have just looked through the Second 
Side of your Letter — I feel a great content 
at it. — I was at Hunt's the other day, and 
he surprised me with a real authenticated 
lock of Milton^s Hair. I know you would 
like what I wrote thereon, so here it is — 
as they say of a Sheep in a Nursery Book : — 

[Here follow the lines, printed above, p. 39.] 

This I did at Hunt's at his request — 
perhaps I should have done something 
better alone and at home. — I have sent 
my first Book to the press, and this after- 
noon shall begin preparing the Second — 
my visit to you will be a great spur to 
quicken the proceeding. — I have not had 
your Sermon returned — I long to make it 
the Subject of a Letter to you — What do 
they say at Oxford ? 



I trust you and Gleig pass much fine 
time together. Remember me to him and 
Whitehead. My Brother Tom is getting 
stronger, but his spitting of Blood con- 
tinues. I sat down to read King Lear 
yesterday, and felt the greatness of the 
thing up to the Writing of a Sonnet pre- 
paratory thereto — in my next you shall 
have it. — There were some miserable 
reports of Rice's health — I went, and lo ! 
Master Jemmy had been to the play the 
night before, and was out at the time — he 
always comes on his legs like a Cat. I have 
seen a good deal of Wordsworth. Hazlitt 
is lecturing on Poetry at the Surrey Insti- 
tution — I shall be there next Tuesday. 

Your most affectionate friend 

John Keats. 

31. TO JOHN TAYLOR 

[Hampstead, January 30, 1818.] 
My dear Taylor — These lines as they 
now stand about ' happiness,' having rung in 
my ears like ' a chime a mending ' — See 
here, 

' Behold 
Wherein lies happiness, Peona ? fold, etc' 

It appears to me the very contrary of 
blessed. I hope this will appear to you 
more eligible. 

' Wherein lies Happiness ? In that which becks 
Our ready minds to fellowship divine, 
A fellowship with Essence till we shine 
Full alchemised, and free of space — Behold 
The clear religion of Heaven — fold, etc' 

You must indulge me by putting this in, 
for setting aside the badness of the other, 
such a preface is necessary to the subject. 
The whole thing must, I think, have ap- 
peared to you, who are a consecutive man, 
as a thing almost of mere words, but I 
assure you that, when I wrote it, it was a 
regular stepping of the Imagination to- 
wards a truth. My having written that 
argument will perhaps be of the greatest 
service to me of anything I ever did. It set 
before me the gradations of happiness, even 



TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 



285 



like a kind of pleasure thermometer, and is 
my first step towards the chief attempt in 
the drama. The playing of different natures 
with joy and Sorrow — 

Do me this favour, and believe me 
Your sincere friend J. Keats. 

I hope j'our next work will be of a more 
general Interest. I suppose you cogitate a 
little about it, now and then. 

32. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 

Hampstead, Saturday [January 31, 1818]. 

My dear Reynolds — I have parcelled 
out this day for Letter Writing — more 
resolved thereon because your Letter will 
come as a refreshment and will have (sic 
parvis etc.) the same effect as a Kiss in 
certain situations where people become 
over-generous. I have read this first sen- 
tence over, and think it savours rather; 
however an inward innocence is like a 
nested dove, as the old song says. . . . ^^ 

Now I purposed to write to you a serious 
poetical letter, but I find that a maxim I 
met with the other day is a just one : ' On 
cause mieux quand on ne dit pas causons.' 
I was hindered, however, from my first in- 
tention by a mere muslin Handkerchief 
very neatly pinned — but ' Hence, vain de- 
luding,' etc. Yet I cannot write in prose; 
it is a sunshiny day and I cannot, so here 
goes, — 

[' Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port,' printed 
above in the Appendix, p. 242.] 

My dear Reynolds, you must forgive all 
this ranting — but the fact is, I cannot 
write sense this Morning — however you 
shall have some — I will copy out my last 
Sonnet. 

[' When I have fears that I may cease to be,' 
given above, p. 39.] 

I must take a turn, and then write to 
Teignmouth. Remember me to all, not 
excepting yourself. 

Your sincere friend John Keats. 



33. TO THE same 

Hampstead, Tuesday [February 3, 1818]. 
My dear Reynolds — I thank you for 
your dish of Filberts — would I could get 
a basket of them by way of dessert every 
day for the sum of twopence.^i Would we 
were a sort of ethereal Pigs, and turned 
loose to feed upon spiritual Mast and 
Acorns — which would be merely being a 
squirrel and feeding upon filberts, for what 
is a squirrel but an airy pig, or a filbert but 
a sort of archangelical acorn ? About ihe 
nuts being worth cracking, all I can say is, 
that where there are a throng of delightful 
Images ready drawn, simplicity is the only 
thing. The first is the best on account of 
the first line, and the 'arrow, foil'd of its 
antler'd food,' and moreover (and this is 
the only word or two I find fault with, the 
more because I have had so much reason 
to shun it as a quicksand) the last has 
' tender and true.' We must cut this, and 
not be rattlesnaked into any more of the 
like. It may be said that we ought to read 
our contemporaries, that Wordsworth, etc. 
should have their due from us. But, for 
the sake of a few fine imaginative or do- 
mestic passages, are we to be bullied into 
a certain Philosophy engendered in the 
whims of an Egotist ? Every man has his 
speculations, but every man does not brood 
and peacock over them till he makes a false 
coinage and deceives himself. Many a man 
can travel to the very bourne of Heaven, 
and yet want confidence to put down his 
half-seeing. Sancho will invent a Journey 
heavenward as well as anybody. We hate 
poetry that has a palpable design upon us, 
and, if we do not agree, seems to put its 
hand into its breeches pocket. Poetry 
should be great and unobtrusive, a thing 
which enters into one's soul, and does not 
startle it or amaze it with itself — but with 
its subject. How beautiful are the retired 
flowers ! — how would they lose their 
beauty were they to throng into the high- 
way, crying out, * Admire me, I am a 



286 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



violet ! Dote upon me, I am a primrose ! ' 
Modern poets differ from the Elizabethans 
in this: each of the moderns like an Elector 
of Hanover governs his petty state and 
knows how many straws are swept daily 
from the Causeways in all his dominions, 
and has a continual itching that all the 
Housewives should have their coppers well 
scoured: The ancients were Emperors of 
vast Provinces, they had only heard of the 
remote ones and scarcely cared to visit 
them. I will cut all this — I will have no 
more of Wordsworth or Hunt in partic- 
ular — Why should we be of the tribe of 
Manasseh, when we can wander with Esau ? 
Why should we kick against the Pricks, 
when we can walk on Roses ? Why should 
we be owls, when we can be eagles ? Why 
be teased with ' nice-eyed wagtails,' when 
we have in sight 'the Cherub Contempla- 
tion ' ? Why with Wordsworth's ' Matthew 
with a bough of wilding in his hand,' when 
we can have Jacques ' under an oak,' etc. ? 
The secret of the Bough of Wilding will 
run through your head faster than I can 
write it. Old Matthew spoke to him some 
years ago on some nothing, and because he 
happens in an Evening Walk to imagine 
the figure of the old Man, he must stamp 
it down in black and white, and it is hence- 
forth sacred. I don't mean to deny Words- 
worth's grandeur and Hunt's merit, but I 
mean to say we need not be teased with 
grandeur and merit when we can have 
them nncontaminated and unobtrusive. Let 
us have the old Poets and Robin Hood. 
Your letter and its sonnets gave me more 
pleasure than will the Fourth Book of 
Childe Harold and the whole of anybody's 
life and opinions. In return for your Dish 
of Filberts, I have gathered a few Catkins, 
I hope they '11 look pretty. 

[To J. H. R. in answer to his Robin Hood 
Sonnets. See p. 41.] 

I hope you will like them — they are 
at least written in the Spirit of Outlawry. 
Here are the Mermaid lines, 

[See p. 40.] 



I will call on you at 4 tomorrow, and we 
will trudge together, for it is not the thing 
to be a stranger in the Land of Harpsicols. 
I hope also to bring you my 2nd Book. In 
the hope that these Scribblings will be some 
amusement for you this Evening, I remain, 
copying on the Hill, 

Your sincere friend and Co-scribbler 
John Keats. 

34. to john taylor 

Fleet Street, Thursday Morn 
[February 5, 1818]. 

My dear Taylor — I have finished 
copying my Second Book — but I want it 
for one day to overlook it. And moreover 
this day I have very particular employ in 
the affair of Cripps — so I trespass on your 
indulgence, and take advantage of your 
good nature. You shall hear from me or 
see me soon. I will tell Reynolds of your 
engagement to-morrow. 

Yours unfeignedly John Keats. 

35. TO GEORGE AND THOMAS KEATS 

Hampstead, Saturday Night 
[February 14, 1818]. 
My dear Brothers — When once a 
man delays a letter beyond the proper time, 
he delays it longer, for one or two reasons 
— first, because he must begin in a very 
common-place style, that is to say, with an 
excuse; and secondly things and circum- 
stances become so jumbled in his mind, 
that he knows not what, or what not, he has 
said in his last — I shall visit you as soon 
as I have copied my poem all out, I am 
now much beforehand with the printer, 
they have done none yet, and I am half 
afraid they will let half the season by be- 
fore the printing. I am determined they 
shall not trouble me when I have copied it 
all. — Horace Smith has lent me his manu- 
script called 'Nehemiah Muggs, an ex- 
posure of the Methodists ' — perhaps I may 
send you a few extracts — Hazlitt's last 



TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 



287 



Lecture was on Thomson, Cowper, and 
Crabbe, he praised Thomson and Cowper 
bnt he gave Crabbe an xmmerciful licking 
— I think Hunt's article of Fazio — no it 
was not, but I saw Fazio the first night, 
it hung rather heavily on me — I am in the 
high way of being introduced to a squad 
of people, Peter Pindar, Mrs. Opie, Mrs. 
Scott — Mr. Robinson a great friend of 
Coleridge's called on me.'^- Richards tells 
me that my poems are known in the west 
country, and that he saw a very clever copy 
of verses, headed with a Motto from my 
Sonnet to George — Honours rush so thickly 
upon me that I shall not be able to bear up 
against them. What think you — am I to 
be crowned in the Capitol, am I to be made 
a Mandarin — No ! I am to be invited, 
Mrs. Hunt tells me, to a party at Ollier's, 
to keep Shakspeare's birthday — Shak- 
speare would stare to see me there. The 
Wednesday before last Shelley, Hunt and 
I wrote each a Sonnet on the River Nile, 
some day you shall read them all. I saw a 
sheet of Endymion, and have all reason to 
suppose they will soon get it done, there 
shall be nothing wanting on my part. I 
have been writing at intervals many songs 
and Sonnets, and I long to be at Teign- 
mouth, to read them over to you: however 
I think I had better wait till this Book is 
off my mind; it will not be long first. 

Reynolds has been writing two very 
capital articles, in the Yellow Dwarf, on 
popular Preachers — All the talk here is 
about Dr. Croft the Duke of Devon etc. 

Your most affectionate Brother John. 

36. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 

[Hampstead, February 19, 1818.] 
My dear Reynolds — I had an idea 
that a Man might pass a very pleasant life 
in this manner — Let him on a certain day 
read a certain page of full Poesy or dis- 
tilled Prose, and let him wander with it, 
and muse upon it, and reflect from it, and 
bring home to it, and prophesy upon it. 



and dream upon it: until it becomes stale 

— But when will it do so ? Never — When 
Man has arrived at a certain ripeness in 
intellect any one grand and spiritual pas- 
sage serves him as a starting-post towards 
all ' the two-and-thirty Palaces.' How happy 
is such a voyage of conception, what deli- 
cious diligent indolence ! A doze upon a 
sofa does not hinder it, and a nap upon 
Clover engenders ethereal finger-pointings 

— the prattle of a child gives it wings, and 
the converse of middle-age a strength to 
beat them — a strain of music conducts 
to ' an odd angle of the Isle,' and when the 
leaves whisper it puts a girdle round the 
earth. — Nor will this sparing touch of 
noble Books be any irreverence to their 
Writers — for perhaps the honors paid by 
Man to Man are trifles in comparison to the 
benefit done by great works to the ' spirit 
and pulse of good ' by their mere passive 
existence. Memory should not be called 
Knowledge — Many have original minds 
who do not think it — they are led away 
by Custom. Now it appears to me that 
almost any Man may like the spider spin 
from his own inwards his own airy Citadel 

— the points of leaves and twigs on which 
the spider begins her work are few, and 
she fills the air with a beautiful circuiting. 
Man should be content with as few points 
to tip with the fine Web of his Soul, and 
weave a tapestry empyrean — full of sym- 
bols for his spiritual eye, of softness for his 
spiritual touch, of space for his wandering, 
of distinctness for his luxury. But the 
minds of mortals are so different and bent 
on such diverse journeys that it may at first 
appear impossible for any common taste 
and fellowship to exist between two or 
three under these suppositions. It is how- 
ever quite the contrary. Minds woidd leave 
each other in contrary directions, traverse 
each other in numberless points, and at 
last greet each other at the journey's end. 
An old man and a child would talk together 
and the old man be led on his path and the 
child left thinking. Man should not dispute 



288 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



or assert, but whisper results to his Neigh- 
bour, and thus by every germ of spirit 
sucking the sap from mould ethereal every 
human might become great, and humanity 
instead of being a wide heath of furze and 
briars, with here and there a remote Oak 
or Pine, would become a grand democracy 
of forest trees. It has been an old compar- 
ison for our urging on — the beehive — 
however it seems to me that we should 
rather be the flower than the Bee — for it 
is a false notion that more is gained by 
receiving than giving — no, the receiver 
and the giver are equal in their benefits. 
The flower, I doubt not, receives a fair 
guerdon from the Bee — its leaves blush 
deeper in the next spring — and who shall 
say between Man and Woman which is the 
most delighted ? Now it is more noble to 
sit like Jove than to fly like Mercury: — 
let us not therefore go hurrying about and 
collecting honey, bee-like, buzzing here 
and there impatiently from a knowledge of 
what is to be arrived at. But let us open 
our leaves like a flower, and be passive and 
receptive; budding patiently under the eye 
of Apollo and taking hints from every noble 
insect that favours us with a visit — Sap 
will be given us for meat, and dew for 
drink. I was led into these thoughts, my 
dear Reynolds, by the beauty of the morn- 
ing operating on a sense of Idleness. I 
have not read any Books — the Morning 
said I was right — I had no idea but of the 
Morning, and the Thrush said I was right 

— seeming to say, 

[Here follows the sonnet ' What the Thrush 
said,' p. 43.] 

Now I am sensible all this is a mere 
sophistication (however it may neighbour 
to any truths), to excuse my own indolence 

— So I will not deceive myself that Man 
should be equal with Jove — but think him- 
self very well off as a sort of scullion- 
Mercury or even a humble-bee. It is no 
matter whether I am right or wrong either 



one way or another, if there is sufficient to 
lift a little time from your shoulders — 
Your affectionate friend John Keats. 

37. TO GEORGE AND THOMAS KEATS 

Hampstead, Saturday [February 21, 1818.] 
My DEAR Brothers — I am extremely 
sorry to have given you so much uneasiness 
by not writing; however, you know good 
news is no news or vice versS. I do not 
like to write a short letter to you, or you 
would have had one long before. The 
weather although boisterous to-day has been 
very much milder; and I think Devonshire 
is not the last place to receive a temperate 
Change. I have been abominably idle since 
you left, but have just turned over a new 
leaf, and used as a marker a letter of 
excuse to an invitation from Horace Smith. 
The occasion of my writing to-day is the 
enclosed letter — by Postmark from Miss 
W[ylie]. Does she expect you in town 
George ? I received a letter the other day 
from Haydon, in which he says, his Essays 
on the Elgin Marbles are being translated 
into Italian, the which he superintends. I 
did not mention that I had seen the British 
Gallery, there are some nice things by 
Stark, and Bathsheba by Wilkie, which is 
condemned. I could not bear Alston's 
Uriel. 

Reynolds has been very ill for some time, 
confined to the house, and had leeches ap- 
plied to his chest; when I saw him on 
Wednesday he was much the same, and he 
is in the worst place for amendment, among 
the strife of women's tongues, in a hot and 
parch 'd room: I wish he would move to 
Butler's for a short time. The Thrushes 
and Blackbirds have been singing me into 
an idea that it was Spring, and almost that 
leaves were on the trees. So that black 
clouds and boisterous winds seem to have 
mustered and collected in full Divan, for 
the purpose of convincing me to the con- 
trary. Taylor says my poem shall be out 



TO JOHN TAYLOR 



289 



in a month, I thiuk he will be out before 
it. . . . 

The thrushes are singing now as if they 
would speak to the winds, because their big 
brother Jack, the Spring, was not far off. 
I am reading Voltaire and Gibbon, although 
I wrote to Reynolds the other day to prove 
reading of no use; I have not seen Hunt 
since, I am a good deal with Dilke and 
Brown, we are very thick; they are very 
kind to me, they are well. I don't think 
I could stop in Hampstead but for their 
neighbourhood. I hear Hazlitt's lectures 
regularly, his last was on Gray, Collins, 
Young, etc., and he gave a very fine piece 
of discriminating Criticism on Swift, Vol- 
taire, and Rabelais. I was very disappointed 
at his treatment of Chatterton. 1 generally 
meet with many I know there. Lord By- 
ron's 4th Canto is expected out, and I 
heard somewhere, that Walter Scott has 
a new Poem in readiness. I am sorry that 
Wordsworth has left a bad impression 
wherever he visited in town by his egotism. 
Vanity, and bigotry. Yet he is a great 
poet if not a philosopher. I have not yet 
read Shelley's Poem, I do not suppose you 
have it yet, at the Teignmouth libraries. 
These double letters must come rather 
heavy, I hope you have a moderate portion 
of cash, but don't fret at all, if you have 
not — Lord ! I intend to play at cut and run 
as well as Falstaff, that is to say, before he 
got so lusty. 

I remain praying for your health my 
dear Brothers 

Your affectionate Brother John. 

38. TO JOHN TAYLOR 

Hampstead, February 27 [1818]. 
My dear Taylor — Your alteration 
strikes me as being a great Improvement 
— And now I will attend to the punctua- 
tions you speak of — The comma should be 
at soberly, and in the other passage, the 
Comma should follow quiet. I am extremely 
indebted to you for this alteration, and also 



for your after admonitions. It is a sorry 
thing for me that any one should have to 
overcome prejudices in reading my verses 
— that affects me more than any hypererit- 
icism on any particular passage — In En- 
dymion, I have most likely but moved into 
the go-cart from the leading-strings — In 
poetry I have a few axioms, and you will 
see how far I am from their centre. 

1st. I think poetry should surprise by 
a fine excess, and not by singularity; It 
should strike the reader as a wording of 
his own highest thoughts, and appear al- 
most a remembrance. 

2d. Its touches of beauty should never 
be half-way, thereby making the reader 
breathless, instead of content. The rise, the 
progress, the setting of Imagery should, 
like the sun, come natural to him, shine 
over him, and set soberly, although in mag- 
nificence, leaving him in the luxury of twi- 
light. But it is easier to think what poetry 
should be, than to write it — And this leads 
me to 

Another axiom — That if poetry comes 
not as naturally as the leaves to a tree, it 
had better not come at all. — However it 
may be with me, I cannot help looking into 
new countries with ' O for a Muse of Fire to 
ascend ! ' If Endymion serves me as a 
pioneer, perhaps I ought to be content — I 
have great reason to be content, for thank 
God I can read, and perhaps understand 
Shakspeare to his depths; and I have I am 
sure many friends, who, if I fail, will attri- 
bute any change in my life and temper to 
humbleness rather than pride — to a cower- 
ing under the wings of great poets, rather 
than to a bitterness that I am not appre- 
ciated. I am anxious to get Endymion 
printed that I may forget it and proceed. 
1 have copied the 3rd Book and begun the 
4th. On running my eye over the proofs, 
I saw one mistake — I will notice it pre- 
sently, and also any others, if there be any. 
There should be no comma in ' the raft 
branch down sweeping from a tall ash-top.' 
I have besides made one or two alterations, 



290 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



and also altered the thirteenth line p. 32 to 
make sense of it, as you will see. I will 
take care the printer shall not trip up my 
heels. There should be no dash after 
Dryope, in the line ' Dryope's lone lulling 
of her child.' 

Remember me to Percy Street. 
Your sincere and obliged friend 

John Keats. 

P. S. — You shall have a short preface 
in good time. 

39. TO MESSRS. TAYLOK AND HESSEY 

Hampstead, March [1818 ?] 
My dear Sirs — I am this morning 
making a general clearance of all lent 
Books — all — I am afraid I do not return 
all — I must fog your memories about them 
— however with many thanks here are the 
remainder — which I am afraid are not 
worth so much now as they were six months 
ago — I mean the fashions may have 
changed — 

Yours truly John Keats. 

40. TO benjamin bailey 

Teignmouth, Friday [March 13, 1818]. 
My dear Bailey — When a poor devil 
is drowning, it is said he comes thrice to 
the surface ere he makes his final sink — if 
however even at the third rise he can man- 
age to catch hold of a piece of weed or 
rock he stands a fair chance, as I hope I do 
now, of being saved. I have sunk twice in 
our corresijoudence, have risen twice, and 
have been too idle, or something worse, to 
extricate myself. I have sunk the third 
time, and just now risen again at this two 
of the Clock p. m., and saved myself 
from utter perdition by beginning this, all 
drenched as I am, and fresh from the water. 
And I would rather endure the present in- 
convenience of a wet jacket than you should 
keep a laced one in store for me. Why did 
I not stop at Oxford in my way ? How 
can you ask such a Question ? Why, did 



I not promise to do so ? Did I not in a 
letter to you make a promise to do so ? 
Then how can you be so unreasonable as to 
ask me why I did not ? This is the thing 

— (for I have been rubbing up my Inven- 
tion — trying several sleights — I first pol- 
ished a cold, felt it in my fingers, tried it 
on the table, but could not pocket it: — I 
tried Chillblains, Rheumatism, Gout, tight 
boots, — nothing of that sort would do, — 
so this is, as I was going to say, the thing) 

— I bad a letter from Tom, saying how 
much better he had got, and thinking he 
had better stop — I went down to prevent 
his coming up. Will not this do ? turn 
it which way you like — it is selvaged all 
round. I have used it, these three last 
days, to keep out the abominable Devon- 
shire weather — by the by, you may say 
what you will of Devonshire : the truth is, 
it is a splashy, rainy, misty, snowy, foggy, 
haily, floody, muddy, slipshod county. The 
hills are very beautiful, when you get a 
sight of 'em — the primroses are out, but 
then you are in — the Cliffs are of a tine 
deep colour, but then the Clouds are con- 
tinually vieing with them — the Women 
like your London people in a sort of neg- 
ative way — because the native men are 
the poorest creatures in England — because 
Government never have thought it worth 
while to send a recruiting party among 
them. When I think of Wordsworth's 
sonnet 'Vanguard of Liberty ! ye men of 
Kent ! ' the degenerated race about me 
are Pulvis ipecac, simplex — a strong dose. 
Were I a corsair, I 'd make a descent 
on the south coast of Devon; if I did 
not run the chance of having Cowardice 
imputed to me. As for the men, they'd 
run away into the Methodist meeting- 
houses, and the women would be glad of it. 
Had England been a large Devonshire, we 
should not have won the Battle of Waterloo. 
There are knotted oaks — there are lusty 
rivulets ? there are meadows such as are 
not — there are valleys of feminine [ ?] 
climate — but there are no thews and 



TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 



291 



sinews — Moor's Almanack is here a Curi- 
osity — Arms, neck, and shoulders may at 
least be seen there, and the ladies read it 
as some out-of-the-way Romance. Such a 
quelling Power have these thoughts over 
me that I fancy the very air of a deterio- 
rating quality. I fancy the flowers, all 
precocious, have an Acrasian spell about 
them — I feel able to beat off the Devon- 
shire waves like soapfroth. I think it well 
for the honour of Britain that Julius Csesar 
did not first land in this County. A Devon- 
shirer standing on his native hills is not a 
distinct object — he does not show against 
the light — a wolf or two would dispossess 
him. I like, I love England. I like its 
living men — give me a long brown plain 
' for my morning,' [money ?] so I may meet 
with some of Edmund Ironside's descend- 
ants. Give me a barren mould, so I may 
meet with some shadowing of Alfred in the 
shape of a Gipsy, a huntsman or a shep- 
herd. Scenery is fine — but human nature 
is finer — the sward is richer for the tread 
of a real nervous English foot — the Eagle's 
nest is finer, for the Mountaineer has looked 
into it. Are these facts or prejudices ? 
Whatever they be, for them I shall never 
be able to relish entirely any Devonshire 
scenery — Homer is fine, Achilles is fine, 
Diomed is fine, Shakspeare is fine, Hamlet 
is fine, Lear is fine, but dwindled English- 
men are not fine. Where too the women 
are so passable, and have such English 
names, such as Ophelia, Cordelia etc. that 
they should have such Paramours or rather 
Imparamours — As for them, I cannot in 
thought help wishing, as did the cruel 
Emperor, that they had but one head, and 
I might cut it off to deliver them from any 
horrible Courtesy they may do their un- 
deserving countrymen. I wonder I meet 
with no born monsters — O Devonshire, last 
night I thought the moon had dwindled in 

heaven 

I have never had your Sermon from 
Wordsworth, but Mr. Dilke lent it me. 
You know my ideas about Religion. I do 



not think myself more in the right than 
other people, and that nothing in this world 
is proveable. I wish I could enter into all 
your feelings on the subject, merely for one 
short 10 minutes, and give you a page or 
two to your liking. I am sometimes so 
very sceptical as to think Poetry itself a 
mere Jack o' Lantern to amuse whoever 
may chance to be struck with its brilliance. 
As tradesmen say everything is worth what 
it will fetch, so probably every mental pur- 
suit takes its reality and worth from the 
ardour of the pursuer — being in itself a 
Nothing. Ethereal things may at least be 
thus real, divided under three heads — 
Things real — things semireal — and no- 
things. Things real, such as existences of 
Sun moon and Stars — and passages of 
Shakspeare. — Things semireal, such as 
love, the clouds etc., which require a greet- 
ing of the Spirit to make them wholly exist 
— and Nothings, which are made great and 
dignified by an ardent pursuit — which, by 
the by, stamp the Burgundy mark on the 
bottles of our minds, insomuch as they are 
able to ' consecrate wliate'er they look upon.' 
I have written a sonnet here of a somewhat 
collateral nature — so don't imagine it an 
'apropos des bottes ' — 

[The sonnet is that entitled 'The Human 
Seasons,' given on p. 44.] 

Aye, this may be carried — but what am 
I talking of ? — it is an old maxim of mine, 
and of course must be well known, that 
every point of thought is the Centre of an 
intellectual world. The two uppermost 
thoughts in a Man's mind are the two poles 
of his world — he revolves on them, and 
everything is Southward or Northward to 
him through their means. — W^e take but 
three steps from feathers to iron. — Now, 
my dear fellow, I must once for all tell 
you I have not one idea of the truth of any 
of my speculations — I shall never be a 
reasoner, because I care not to be in the 
right, when retired from bickering and in 
a proper philosophical temper. So you 



292 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



must not stare if in any future letter, I en- 
deavour to prove that Apollo, as he had 
catgut strings to his lyre, used a cat's paw 
as a pecten — and further from said Pecten's 
reiterated and continual teasing caine the 
term hen-pecked. My Brother Tom desires 
to be remembered to you; he has just this 
moment had a spitting of blood, poor fellow 

— Remember me to Gleig and Whitehead. 
Your affectionate friend John Keats. 

41. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 

Teignmouth, Saturday [March 14, 1818]. 
Dear Reynolds — I escaped being 
blown over and blown under and trees and 
house being toppled on me. — I have since 
hearing of Brown's accident had an aver- 
sion to a dose of parapet, and being also a 
lover of antiquities I would sooner have a 
harmless piece of Herculaueum sent me 
quietly as a present than ever so modern a 
chimney-pot tumbled on to my head — 
Being agog to see some Devonshire, I would 
have taken a walk the first day, but the rain 
would not let me; and the second, but the 
rain would not let me; and the third, but 
the rain forbade it. Ditto 4 — ditto 5 — 
ditto — so I made up my Mind to stop in- 
doors, and catch a sight flying between the 
showers: and, behold I saw a pretty valley 

— pretty cliffs, pretty Brooks, pretty Mead- 
ows, pretty trees, both standing as they 
were created, and blown down as they are 
uncreated — The green is beautiful, as they 
say, and pity it is that it is amphibious — 
mais ! but alas ! the flowers here wait as 
naturally for the rain twice a day as the 
Mussels do for the Tide; so we look upon 
a brook in these parts as you look upon a 
splash in your Country. There must be 
something to support this — aye, fog, hail, 
snow, rain, Mist blanketing up three parts 
of the year. This Devonshire is like Lydia 
Languish, very entertaining when it smiles, 
but cursedly subject to sympathetic mois- 
ture. You have the sensation of walking 
under one great Lamplighter: and you 



can't go on the other side of the ladder to 
keep your frock clean, and cosset your 
superstition. Buy a girdle — put a pebble 
in your mouth — loosen your braces — for I 
am going among scenery whence I intend 
to tip you the Damosel Radcliffe — I '11 
cavern you, and grotto you, and waterfall 
you, and wood you, and water you, and 
immense-rock you, and tremendous-sound 
you, and solitude you. I '11 make a lodg- 
ment on your glacis by a row of Pines, and 
storm your covered way with bramble 
Bushes. I '11 have at you with hip and 
haw small-shot, and cannonade you with 
Shingles — I '11 be witty upon salt-fish, and 
impede your cavalry with clotted cream. 
But ah Coward ! to talk at this rate to a 
sick man, or, I hope, to one that was sick 
— for I hope by this you stand on your 
right foot. If you are not — that 's all, — 
I intend to cut all sick people if they do not 
make up their minds to cut Sickness — a 
fellow to whom I have a complete aversion, 
and who strange to say is harboured and 
countenanced in several houses where I 
visit — he is sitting now quite impudent 
between me and Tom — He insults me at 
poor Jem Rice's — and you have seated him 
before now between us at the Theatre, 
when I thought he looked with a longing 
eye at poor Kean. I shall say, once for all, 
to my friends generally and severally, cut 
that fellow, or I cut you — 

I went to the Theatre here the other 
night, which I forgot to tell George, and 
got insulted, which I ought to remember 
to forget to tell any Body; for I did not 
fight, and as yet have had no redress — 
' Lie thou there, sweetheart ! ' I wrote to 
Bailey yesterday, obliged to speak in a high 
way, and a damme who 's afraid — for I 
had owed him so long; however, he shall see 
I will be better in future. Is he in town 
yet ? I have directed to Oxford as the 
better tjhance. I have copied my fourth 
Book, and shall write the Preface soon. I 
wish it was all done; for I want to forget 
it and make my mind free for something 



TO MESSRS. TAYLOR AND HESSEY 



293 



new — Atkins the Coachman, Bartlett the 
Surgeon, Simmons the Barber, and the Girls 
over at the Bonuetshop, say we shall now 
have a month of seasonable weather — 
warm, witty, and full of invention — Write 
to me and tell me that you are well or 
thereabouts, or by the holy Beaucceur, 
which I suppose is the Virgin Mary, or the 
repented Magdalen (beautiful name, that 
Magdalen), I '11 take to my Wings and fly 
away to anywhere but old or Nova Scotia 

— I wish I had a little innocent bit of 
Metaphysic in my head, to criss-cross the 
letter: but you know a favourite tune is 
hardest to be remembered when one wants 
it most and you, I know, have long ere this 
taken it for granted that I never have any 
speculations ^vithout associating you in 
them, where they are of a pleasant nature, 
and you know enough of me to tell the 
places where I haunt most, so that if you 
think for five minutes after having read 
this, you will find it a long letter, and see 
written in the Air above you. 

Your most affectionate friend 

John Keats. 
Remember me to all. Tom's remem- 
brances to you. 

42. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 

Teignmouth, Saturday Morn [March 21, 1818]. 

My DEAR Haydon — In sooth, I hope 

you are not too sanguine about that seal ^^ 

— in sooth I hope it is not Brumidgeum — 
in double sooth I hope it is his — and in 
triple sooth I hope I shall have an impres- 
sion. Such a piece of intelligence came 
doubly welcome to me while in your own 
County and in your own hand — not but I 
have blown up the said County for its urinal 
qualifications — the six first days I was 
here it did nothing but rain; and at that 
time having to write to a friend I gave 
Devonshire a good blowing up — it has 
been fine for almost three days, and I was 
coming round a bit; but to-day it rains 
again — with me the County is yet upon its 



good behaviour. I have enjoyed the most 
delightful Walks these three fine days 
beautiful enough to make me content here 
all the summer could I stay. 

[Here follow the verses 'At Teignmouth,' 
given above, p. 242.] 

I know not if this rhyming fit has done 
anything — it will be safe with you if 
worthy to put among my Lyrics. Here 's 
some doggrel for you — Perhaps you would 
like a bit of b hrell — 

[' The Devon Maid,' see above, p. 243.] 

How does the work go on ? I should 
like to bring out my ' Dentatus ' ^* at the 
time your Epic makes its appearance. I 
expect to have my Mind soon clear for 
something new. Tom has been much worse: 
but is now getting better — his remem- 
brances to you. I think of seeing the Dart 
and Plymouth — but I don't know. It has 
as yet been a Mystery to me how and where 
Wordsworth went. I can't help thinking 
he has returned to his Shell — with his 
beautiful Wife and his enchanting Sister. 
It is a great Pity that People should by 
associating themselves with the finest things, 
spoil them. Hunt has damned Hampstead 
and masks and sonnets and Italian tales. 
Wordsworth has damned the lakes — Mil- 
man has damned the old drama — West 

has damned wholesale. Peacock has 

damned satire — Oilier has damn'd Music 
— Hazlitt has damned the bigoted and the 
blue-stockinged; how durst the Man? he is 
your only good damner, and if ever I am 
damn'd — damn me if I should n't like him 
to damn me. It will not be long ere I see 
you, but I thought I would just give you a 
line out of Devon. 

Yours affectionately John Keats. 

Remember me to all we know. 

43. TO 5IESSRS. TAYLOR AND HESSEY 

Teignmouth, Saturday Morn [March 21, 1818]. 

My dear Sirs — I had no idea of your 

getting on so fast — I thought of bringing 



294 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



my 4th Book to Town all in good time for 
you — especially after the late unfortunate 
chance. 

I did not however for my own sake delay 
finishing the copy which was done a few 
days after my arrival here. I send it off 
to-day, and will tell you in a Postscript at 
what time to send for it from the Bull and 
Mouth or other Inn. You will find the 
Preface and dedication and the title Page 
as I should wish it to stand — for a Ro- 
mance is a fine thing notwithstanding the 
circulating Libraries. My respects to Mrs. 
Hessey and to Percy Street. 

Yours very sincerely John Keats. 

P. S. — I have been advised to send it to 
you — you may expect it on Monday — for 
I sent it by the Postman to Exeter at the 
same time with this Letter. Adieu ! 

44. TO JAMBS RICE 

Teignmouth, Tuesday [March 24, 1818]. 
My dear Rice — Being in the midst of 
your favourite Devon, I should not, by 
rights, pen one word but it should contain 
a vast portion of Wit, Wisdom and learn- 
ing — for I have heard that Milton ere he 
wrote his answer to Salmasius came into 
these parts, and for one whole month, 
rolled himself for three whole hours (per 
day ?), in a certain meadow hard by us — 
where the mark of his nose at equidistances 
is still shown. The exhibitor of the said 
meadow further saith, that, after these 
rollings, not a nettle sprang up in all the 
seven acres for seven years, and that from 
the said time, a new sort of plant was made 
from the whitethorn, of a thornless nature, 
very much used by the bucks of the present 
day to rap their boots withal. This account 
made me very naturally suppose that the 
nettles and thorns etherealised by the 
scholar's rotatory motion, and garnered in 
his head, thence flew after a process of fer- 
mentation against the Itickless Salmasius 
and occasioned his well-known and unhappy 
end. What a happy thing it would be if 



we could settle our thoughts and make our 
minds up on any matter in five minutes, 
and remain content — that is, build a sort 
of mental cottage of feelings, quiet and 
pleasant — to have a sort of philosophical 
back-garden, and cheerful holiday-keeping 
front one — but alas! this never can be: 
for as the material cottager knows there 
are such places as France and Italy, and 
the Andes and burning mountains, so the 
spiritual Cottager has knowledge of the 
terra semi-incognita of things unearthly, and 
cannot for his life keep in the check-rein — 
or I should stop here quiet and comforta- 
ble in my theory of nettles. You will see, 
however, I am obliged to run wild being 
attracted by the load-stone concatenation. 
No sooner had I settled the knotty point 
of Salmasius, than the Devil put this whim 
into my head in the likeness of one of 
Pythagoras's questionings — Did Milton do 
more good or harm in the world ? He 
wrote, let me inform you (for I have it 

from a friend, who had it of ,) he 

wrote Lycidas, Comus, Paradise Lost and 
other Poems, with much delectable prose — 
He was moreover an active friend to man 
all his life, and has been since his death. — 
Very good — but, my dear Fellow, I must 
let you know that, as there is ever the same 
quantity of matter constituting this habit- 
able globe — as the ocean notwithstanding 
the enormous changes and revolutions tak- 
ing place in some or other of its demesnes 
— notwithstanding Waterspouts whirlpools 
and mighty rivers emptying themselves into 
it — still is made up of the same bulk, nor 
ever varies the number of its atoms — and 
as a certain bulk of water was instituted at 
the creation — so very likely a certain por- 
tion of intellect was spun forth into the thin 
air, for the brains of man to prey upon it. 
Yoii will see my drift without any unneces- 
sary parenthesis. That which is contained 
in the Pacific could not lie in the hollow of 
the Caspian — that which was in Milton's 
head could not find room in Charles the 
Second's — He like a moon attracted intel- 



TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 



295 



lect to its flow — it has not ebbed yet, but 
has left the shore-pebbles all bare — I 
mean all Bucks, Authors of Hengist, and 
Castlereaghs of the present day; who with- 
out Milton's gormandising might have been 
all wise men — Now forasmuch as I was 
very predisposed to a country I had heard 
you speak so highly of, I took particular 
notice of everything during my journey, 
and have bought some folio asses' skins for 
memorandums. I have seen everything 
but the wind — and that, they say, becomes 
visible by taking a dose of acorns, or sleep- 
ing one night in a hog-trough, with your 
tail to the Sow-Sow- West. Some of the 
little Bar-maids look'd at me as if I knew 
Jem Rice, — but when I took (cherry ?) 
Brandy they were quite convinced. One 
asked whether you preserved (?) a secret 
she gave you on the nail — Another, how 
many buttons of your coat were buttoned 
in general. — I told her it used to be four 
— But since you had become acquainted 
with one Martin you had reduced it to 
three, and had been turning this third one 
in your mind — and would do so with finger 
and thumb only you had taken to snuff. I 
have met with a brace or twain of little 
Long-heads — not a bit o' the German. All 
in the neatest little dresses, and avoiding 
all the puddles, but very fond of pepper- 
mint drops, laming ducks and . . . Well, I 
can't tell ! I hope you are showing poor 
Reynolds the way to get well. Send me a 
good account of him, and if I can, I '11 send 
you one of Tom — Oh ! for a day and all 
well! 

I went yesterday to Dawlish fair. 

Over the Hill and over the Dale, 
And over the Bourne to Dawlish, 

Where ginger-bread wives have a scanty sale, 
And ginger-bread nuts are smallish, etc. etc. 



all. 



Tom's remembrances and mine to you 



Your sincere friend 



John Keats. 



45. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 

[Teignmouth, March 25, 1818.] 
My dear Reynolds — In hopes of 
cheering you through a Minute or two, I 
was determined will he nill he to send you 
some lines, so you will, excuse the uncon- 
nected subject and careless verse. You 
know, I am sure, Claude's Enchanted Cas- 
tle,^^ and I wish you may be pleased with 
my remembrance of it. The Rain is come 
on again — I think with me Devonshire 
stands a very poor chance. I shall damn 
it up hill and down dale, if it keep up to 
the average of six fine days in three weeks. 
Let me have better news of you. 

Tom's remembrances to you. Remember 
us to all. 

Your affectionate friend, John Keats. 

[The letter concludes with the lines given on 
p. 241.] 

4G. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 

Wednesday, [Teignmouth, Aprils, 1818]. 
My dear Haydon — I am glad you 
were pleased with my nonsense, and if it so 
happen that the humour takes me when I 
have set down to prose to you I will not 
gainsay it. I should be (God forgive me) 
ready to swear because I cannot make use 
of your assistance in going through Devon 
if I was not in my own Mind determined to 
visit it thoroughly at some more favourable 
time of the year. But now Tom (who is 
getting greatly better) is anxious to be in 
Town — therefore I put off my threading the 
County. I purpose within a month to put 
my knapsack at my back and make a pedes- 
trian tour through the North of England, 
and part of Scotland — to make a sort of 
Prologue to the Life I intend to pursue 
— that is to write, to study and to see 
all Europe at the lowest expence. I will 
clamber through the Clouds and exist. I 
will get such an accumulation of stupendous 
recollections that as I walk through the 
suburbs of London I may not see them — I 



296 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



will stand upon Mount Blanc and remember 
this coming Summer when I intend to 
straddle Ben Lomond — with my soul ! — 
galligaskins are out of the Question. I am 
nearer myself to hear your ' Christ ' is 
being tinted into immortality. Believe me 
Haydon your picture is part of myself — I 
have ever been too sensible of the laby- 
rinthian path to eminence in Art (judging 
from Poetry) ever to think I understood 
the emphasis of painting. The innumerable 
compositions and decompositions which take 
place between the intellect and its thousand 
materials before it ari'ives at that trem- 
bling delicate and snail-horn perception of 
beauty. I know not your many havens of 
intenseness — nor ever can know them: 
but for this I hope not [sic nought ?] you 
achieve is lost upon me: for when a School- 
boy the abstract Idea I had of an heroic 
painting — was what I cannot describe. I 
saw it somewhat sideways, large, promi- 
nent, round, and colour'd with magnifi- 
cence — somewhat like the feel I have of 
Anthony and Cleopatra. Or of Alcibiades 
leaning on his Crimson Couch in his Galley, 
his broad shoulders imperceptibly heaving 
with the Sea. That passage in Shakspeare 
is finer than this — 

' See how the surly Warwick mans the Wall.' 

I like your consignment of Corneille — 
that's the humour of it — they shall be 
called your Posthumous Works.^^ I don't 
understand your bit of Italian. I hope she 
will awake from her dream and flourish fair 
— my respects to her. The Hedges by this 
time are beginning to leaf — Cats are becom- 
ing more vociferous — young Ladies who 
wear Watches are always looking at them. 
Women about forty-five think the Season 
very backward — Ladies' Mares have but 
half an allowance of food. It rains here 
again, has been doing so for three days — 
however as I told you I '11 take a trial in 
June, July, or August next year. 

I am afraid Wordsworth went rather 
huffd out of Town — I am sorry for it — 



he cannot expect his fireside Divan to be 
infallible — he cannot expect but that every 
man of worth is as proud as himself. O 
that he had not fit with a Warrener — that 
is dined at Kingston's. I shall be in town 
in about a fortnight and then we will have 
a day or so now and then before I set out 
on my northern expedition — we will have 
no more abominable Rows — for they leave 
one in a fearful silence — having settled 
the Methodists let us be rational — not 
upon compulsion — no — if it will out let it 
— but I will not play the Bassoon any more 
deliberately. Remember me to Hazlitt, and 
Bewick — 

Your affectionate friend, John Keats. 

47. TO JOHN HAMILTON KEYNOLDS 

Thy. morng., [Teignmouth, April 9, 1818]. 

My dear Reynolds — Since you all 
agree that the thing [the first preface to 
Endymioii] is bad, it must be so — though I 
am not aware there is anything like Hunt 
in it (and if there is, it is my natural way, 
and I have something in common with 
Hunt). Look it over again, and examine 
into the motives, the seeds, from which any 
one sentence sprung — I have not the slight- 
est feel of humility towards the public — or 
to anything in existence, — but the eternal 
Being, the Principle of Beauty, and the 
Memory of great Men. When I am writ- 
ing for myself for the mere sake of the 
moment's enjoyment, perhaps nature has its 
course with me — but a Preface is written 
to the Public; a thing I cannot help look- 
ing upon as an Enemy, and which I cannot 
address without feelings of Hostility. If I 
write a Preface in a supple or subdued 
style, it will not be in character with me 
as a public speaker — I would be subdued 
before my friends, and thank them for sub- 
duing me — but among Multitudes of Men 
— I have no feel of stooping, I hate the 
idea of humility to them. 

I never wrote one single Line of Poetry 
with the least Shadow of public thought. 



TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 



297 



Forgive me for vexing you and making a 
Trojan horse of such a Trifle, both with 
respect to the matter in Question, and my- 
self — but it eases me to tell you — I could 
no<; live without the love of my friends — I 
would jump down iEtna for any great Public 
good — but I hate a Mawkish Popularity. 
I cannot be subdued before them — My 
glory would be to daunt and dazzle the 
thousand jabberers about Pictures and 
Books — I see swarms of Porcupines with 
their Quills erect 'like lime-twigs set to 
catch my Winged Book,' and I would fright 
them away with a torch. You will say my 
Tr> iface is not much of a Torch. It would 
ha iC been too insulting ' to begin from 
Jove,' and I could not set a golden head 
upon a thing of clay. If there is any fault 
in the Preface it is not affectation, but an 
undersong of disrespect to the Public — if 
I write another Preface it must be done 
without a thought of those people — I will 
think about it. If it should not reach you 
in four or five days, tell Taylor to publish 
it without a Preface, and let the Dedica- 
tion simply stand — * inscribed to the Mem- 
ory of Thomas Chatterton.' 

I had resolved last night to write to you 
this morning — I wish it had been about 
something else — something to greet you 
towards the close of your long illness. I 
have had one or two intimations of your 
going to Hampstead for a space; and I 
regret to see your confounded Rheumatism 
keeps you in Little Britain where I am 
sure the air is too confined. Devonshire 
continues rainy. As the drops beat against 
the window, they give me the same sensa- 
tion as a quart of cold water offered to 
revive a half-drowned devil — no feel of 
the clouds dropping fatness; but as if the 
roots of the earth were rotten, cold, and 
drenched. I have not been able to go to 
Kent's cave at Babbicombe — however on 
one very beautiful day I had a fine Clamber 
over the rocks all along as far as that place. 
I shall be in Town in about Ten days — 
We go by way of Bath on purpose to call 



on Bailey. I hope soon to be writing to 
you about the things of the north, pur- 
posing to wayfare all over those parts. I 
have settled my accoutrements in my own 
mind, and will go to gorge wonders. How- 
ever, we '11 have some days together before 
I set out — 

I have many reasons for going wonder- 
ways: to make my winter chair free from 
spleen — to enlarge my vision — to escape 
disquisitions on Poetry and Kingston Criti- 
cism; to promote digestion and economise 
shoe-leather. I'll have leather buttons and 
belt; and, if Brown holds his mind, over 
the Hills we go. If my Books will help 
me to it, then will I take all Europe in 
turn, and see the Kingdoms of the Earth 
and the glory of them. Tom is getting 
better, he hopes you may meet him at the 
top o' the hill. My Love to your nurses. I 
am ever 

Your affectionate Friend John Keats. 

48. TO THE SAME 

[Teignmouth,] Friday [April 10, 1818]. 

My dear Reynolds — I am anxious 
you shoiild find this Preface tolerable. If 
there is an affectation in it 't is natural to 
me. Do let the Printer's Devil cook it, and 
let me be as ' the casing air.' 

You are too good in this Matter — were I 
in your state, I am certain I should have 
no thought but of discontent and illness — 
I might though be taught patience: I had 
an idea of giving no Preface; however, 
don't you think this had better go? O, let 
it — one should not be too timid — of com- 
mitting faults. 

The climate here weighs us down com- 
pletely; Tom is quite low-spirited. It is 
impossible to live in a country which is con- 
tinually under hatches. Who would live 
in a region of Mists, Game Laws, indemnity 
Bills, etc., when there is such a place as 
Italy ? It is said this England from its 
Clime produces a Spleen, able to engender 
the finest Sentiments, and cover the whole 



298 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



face of the isle with Green — so it ought, 
I'm sxire. — I should still like the Dedica- 
tion simply, as I said in my last. 

I wanted to send you a few songs written 
in your favorite Devon — it cannot be — 
Rain ! Rain ! Rain ! I am going this morn- 
ing to take a facsimile of a Letter of 
Nelson's, very much to his honour — you 
will be greatly pleased when you see it — 
in about a week. What a ^pite it is one 
cannot get out — the little way I went yes- 
terday, I found a lane banked on each side 
with store of Primroses, while the earlier 
bushes are beginning to leaf. 

I shall hear a good account of you soon. 

Your affectionate Friend John Keats. 

My Love to all and remember me to 
Taylor. 

49. TO JOHN TAYLOR 

Teignmouth, Friday [April 24, 1818]. 

My dear Taylor — I think I did wrong 
to leave to you all the trouble of Endy- 
mion — But I could not help it then — 
another time I shall be more bent to all 
sorts of troubles and disagreeables. Young 
men for some time have an idea that such 
a thing as happiness is to be had, and 
therefore are extremely impatient under 
any unpleasant restraining. In time how- 
ever, of such stuff is the world about them, 
they know better, and instead of striving 
from uneasiness, greet it as an habitual 
sensation, a pannier which is to weigh upon 
them through life — And in proportion to 
my disgust at the task is my sense of your 
kindness and anxiety. The book pleased 
me much. It is very free from faults: and, 
although there are one or two words I 
should wish replaced, I see in many places 
an improvement greatly to the purpose. 

I think those speeches which are related 
— those parts where the speaker repeats 
a speech, such as Glaucus's repetition of 
Circe's words, should have inverted com- 
mas to every line. In this there is a little 
confusion. — If we divide the speeches into 



indentical and related; and to the forjoier 
put merely one inverted Comma at i the 
beginning and another at the end; and to 
the latter inverted Commas before every 
line, the book will be better understood' at 
the 1st glance. Look at pages 126, 1'27, 
you will find in the 3d line the beginning 
of a related speech marked thus ' Ah ! art 
awake — 'while, at the same time, in the 
next page the continuation of the indenhcal 
speech is marked in the same manaer, 
'Young man of Latmos — ' You will find 
on the other side all the parts which should 
have inverted commas to every line. 

I was proposing to travel over the Nc rth 
this summer. There is but one thing -^ 
prevent me. — I know nothing — I h; 
read nothing — and I mean to foll^ 
Solomon's directions, ' Get learning — get 
understanding.' I find earlier days are 
gone by — I find that I can have no enjoy- 
ment in the world but continual drinking 
of knowledge. I find there is no worthy 
pursuit but the idea of doing some good for 
the world — Some do it with their Society — 
some with their wit — some with their 
benevolence — some with a sort of power 
of conferring pleasure and good-humour on 
all they meet — and in a thousand ways, all 
dutiful to the command of great Nature — 
there is but one way for me. The road lies 
through application, study, and thought. — 
I will pursue it; and for that end, purpose 
retiring for some years. I have been hover- 
ing for some time between an exquisite 
sense of the luxurious, and a love for philo- 
sophy, — were I calculated for the former, 
I should be glad. But as I am not, I shall 
turn all my soul to the latter. — My brother 
Tom is getting better, and I hope I shall 
see both him and Reynolds better before I 
retire from the world. I shall see you 
soon, and have some talk about what Books 
I shall take with me. 

Your very sincere friend John Keats. 

Pray remember me to Hessey Wood- 
house and Percy Street. 



TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 



299 



50. TO JOHN HAMILTON KEYNOLDS 

Teignmouth, April 27, 1818. 

My dear Reynolds — It is au awful 
while since you have heard from me — I 
hope I may not be punished, when I see 
you well, and so anxious as you always are 
for me, with the remembrance of my so 
seldom writing when you were so horribly 
confined. The most unhappy hours in our 
lives are those in whicli we recollect times 
past to our own blushing — If we are im- 
mortal that must be the Hell. If I must 
be immortal, I hope it will be after having 
taken a little of ' that watery labyrinth ' in 
order to forget some of my school-boy days 
and others since those. 

I have heard from George at different 
times how slowly you were recovering — It 
is a tedious thing — but all Medical Men 
will tell you how far a very gradual amend- 
ment is preferable ; you will be strong after 
this, never fear. We are here still envel- 
oped in clouds — I lay awake last night 
listening to the Rain with a sense of being 
drowned and rotted like a grain of wheat. 
There is a continual courtesy between the 
Heavens and the Earth. The heavens rain 
down their unwelcomeness, and the Earth 
sends it up again to be returned to-morx-ow. 
Tom has taken a fancy to a physician here, 
Dr. Turton, and I think is getting better — 
therefore I shall perhaps remain here some 
Months. I have written to George for 
some Books — shall learn Greek, and very 
likely Italian — and in other ways prepare 
myself to ask Hazlitt in about a year's 
time the best metaphysical road I can take. 
For although I take poetry to be Chief, yet 
there is something else wanting to one who 
passes his life among Books and thoughts 
on Books — I long to feast upon old Homer 
as we have upon Shakspeare, and as I have 
lately upon Milton. If you understood 
Greek, and would read me passages, now 
and then, explaining their meaning, 't woidd 
be, from its mistiness, perhaps, a greater 
luxury than reading the thing one's self. I 



shall be happy when I can do the same for 
you. I have written for my folio Shak- 
speare, in which there are the first few 
stanzas of my ' Pot of Basil.' I have the 
rest here finished, and will copy the whole 
out fair shortly, and George will bring it 
you — The compliment is paid by us to 
Boccace, whether we publish or no: so 
there is content in this world — mine is 
short — you must be deliberate about 
yours: you must not think of it till many 
months after yon are quite well: — then 
put your passion to it, and I shall be bound 
up with you in the shadows of Mind, as we 
are in our matters of human life. Perhaps 
a Stanza or two will not be too foreign to 
your Sickness. 

[Here are inserted stanzas xii., xiii., and xxx.] 

I heard from Rice this morning — very 
witty — and have just written to Bailey. 
Don't you think I am brushing up in the 
letter way ? and being in for it, you shall 
hear again from me very shortly: — if 
you will promise not to put hand to paper 
for me until you can do it with a tolerable 
ease of health — except it be a line or two. 
Give my Love to your Mother and Sisters. 
Remember me to the Butlers — not forget- 
ting Sarah. 

Your affectionate Friend John Keats. 

51. TO THE SAME 

Teignmouth, May 3d [1818]. 
My dear Reynolds — What I complain 
of is that I have been in so uneasy a state 
of Mind as not to be fit to write to an 
invalid. I cannot write to any length 
under a disguised feeling. I should have 
loaded you with an addition of gloom, which 
I am- sure you do not want. I am now 
thank God in a humour to give you a good 
groat's worth — for Tom, after a Night 
without a Wink of sleep, and over-bur- 
thened with fever, has got up after a 
refreshing day-sleep and is better than he 
has been for a long time; and you I trust 



300 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



have been again round the common without 
any effect but refreshment. As to the 
Matter I hope I can say with Sir Andrew 
' I have matter enough in my head ' in your 
favour — And now, in the second place, for 
I reckon that I have finished my Imprimis, 
I am glad you blow up the weather — all 
through your letter there is a leaning to- 
wards a climate-curse, and you know what 
a delicate satisfaction there is in having a 
vexation anathematised: one would think 
there has been growing up for these last 
four thousand years, a grand-child Scion 
of the old forbidden tree, and that some 
modern Eve had just violated it; and that 
there was come with double charge 

' Notus and Af er, black with thundrous clouds 
From Serraliona — ' 

I shall breathe worsted stockings ^"^ sooner 
than I thought for — Tom wants to be in 
Town — we will have some such days upon 
the heath like that of last summer — and 
why not with the same book ? or what say 
you to a black Letter Chaucer, printed in 
1596: aye I 've got one huzza ! I shall 
have it bound en gothique — a nice sombre 
binding — it will go a little way to un- 
modernise. And also 1 see no reason, 
because I have been away this last month, 
why I should not have a peep at your 
Spenserian — notwithstanding you speak of 
your office, in my thought a little too early, 
for I do not see why a Mind like yours is 
not capable of hai'bouring and digesting 
the whole Mystery of Law as easily as 
Parson Hugh does pippins, which did not 
hinder him from his poetic canary. Were I 
to study physic or rather Medicine again, 
I feel it would not make the least differ- 
ence in my Poetry; when the mind is in its 
infancy a Bias is in reality a Bias, but when 
we have acquired more strength, a Bias 
becomes no Bias. Every department of 
Knowledge we see excellent and calculated 
towards a great whole — I am so convinced 
of this that I am glad at not having given 
away my medical Books, which I shall 



again look over to keep alive the little I 
know thitherwards; and moreover intend 
through you and Rice to become a sort 
of pip-civilian. An extensive knowledge 
is needful to thinking people — it takes 
away the heat and fever; and helps, by 
widening speculation, to ease the Burden 
of the Mystery, a thing which I begin to 
understand a little, and which weighed 
upon you in the most gloomy and true 
sentence in your Letter. The difference of 
high Sensations with and without know- 
ledge appears to me this: in the latter case 
we are falling continually ten thousand 
fathoms deep and being blown up again, 
without wings, and with all horror of a 
bare-shouldered Creature — in the former 
case, our shoulders are fledged, and we go 
through the same air and space without 
fear. This is running one's rigs on the 
score of abstracted benefit — when we come 
to human Life and the affections, it is im- 
possible to know how a parallel of breast 
and head can be drawn (you will forgive 
me for thus privately treading out of my 
depth, and take it for treading as school- 
boys tread the water) ; it is impossible to 
know how far knowledge will console us 
for the death of a friend, and the ill ' that 
flesh is heir to.' With respect to the affec- 
tions and Poetry you must know by a sym- 
pathy my thoughts that way, and I daresay 
these few lines will be but a ratification: 
I wrote them on Mayday — and intend to 
finish the ode all in good time — 

' Mother of Hermes ! and still youthful Maia ! ' 
[See p. 119.] 

You may perhaps be anxious to know for 
fact to what sentence in your Letter I 
allude. You say, ' I fear there is little 
chance of anything else in this life ' — you 
seem by that to have been going through 
with a more painful and acute zest the 
same labyrinth that I have — I have come 
to the same conclusion thus far. My 
Branchings out therefrom have been nu- 
merous: one of them is the consideration 



TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 



301 



of Wordsworth's genius and as a help, in 
the manner of gold being the meridian 
Line of worldlj' wealth, how he differs 
from Milton. And here I have nothing 
but surmises, from an uncertainty whether 
Milton's apparently less anxiety for Hu- 
manity proceeds from his seeing further or 
not than Wordsworth: And whether Words- 
worth has in truth epic passion, and mar- 
tyrs himself to the human heart, the main 
region of his song. In regard to his genius 
alone — we find what he says true as far 
as we have experienced, and we can judge 
no further but by larger experience — for 
axioms in philosophy are not axioms until 
they are proved upon our pulses. We read 
fine things, but never feel them to the full 
until we have gone the same steps as the 
author. — I know this is not plain; you will 
know exactly my meaning when I say that 
now I shall relish Hamlet more than I ever 
have done — Or, better — you are sensi- 
ble no man can set down Venery as a bes- 
tial or joyless thing until he is sick of it, 
and therefore all philosophising on it would 
be mere wording. UntQ we are sick, we 
understand not; in fine, as Byron says, 
'Knowledge is sorrow '; and I go on to say 
that ' Sorrow is wisdom ' — and further for 
aught we can know for certainty ' Wisdom 
is folly ' — So you see how I have run 
away from Wordsworth and Milton, and 
shall still run away from what was in my 
head, to observe, that some kind of letters 
are good squares, others handsome ovals, 
and other some orbicular, others spheroid 
— and why should not there be another 
species with two rough edges like a Rat- 
trap ? I hope you will find all my long 
letters of that species, and all will be well; 
for by merely touching the spring delicately 
and ethereally, the rough-edged will fly 
immediately into a proper compactness; 
and thus you may make a good wholesome 
loaf, with your own leaven in it, of my 
fragments — If you cannot find this said 
Rat-trap sufficiently tractable, alas for me, 
it being an impossibility in grain for my ink 



to stain otherwise : If I scribble long letters 
I must play my vagaries — I must be too 
heavy, or too light, for whole pages — I 
must be quaint and free of Tropes and 
figures — I must play my draughts as I 
please, and for my advantage and your 
erudition, crown a white with a black, or a 
black with a white, and move into black or 
white, far and near as I please — I must go 
from Hazlitt to Patmore, and make Words- 
worth and Coleman play at leap-frog, or 
keep one of them down a whole half- 
holiday at fly-the-garter — ' From Gray to 
Gay, from Little to Shakspeare.' Also as 
a long cause requires two or more sittings 
of the Court, so a long letter will require 
two or more sittings of the Breech, where- 
fore I shall resume after dinner — 

Have you not seen a Gull, an ore, a Sea- 
Mew, or anything to bring this Line to a 
proper length, and also fill up this clear 
part ; that like the Gull I may dip * — 
I hope, not out of sight — and also, like a 
Gull, I hope to be lucky in a good-sized 
fish — This crossing a letter is not without 
its association — for chequer-work leads us 
naturally to a Milkmaid, a Milkmaid to 
Hogarth, Hogarth to Shakspeare — Shak- 
speare to Hazlitt — Hazlitt to Shakspeare 

— and thus by merely pulling an apron- 
string we set a pretty peal of Chimes at 
work — Let them chime on while, with 
your patience, I will return to Wordsworth 

— whether or no he has an extended vision 
or a circumscribed grandeur — whether he 
is an eagle in his nest or on the wing — 
And to be more explicit and to show you 
how tall I stand by the giant, I will put 
down a simile of human life as far as I 
now perceive it; that is, to the point to 
which I say we both have arrived at — 
Well — I compare human life to a large 
Mansion of Many apartments, two of which 
I can only describe, the doors of the rest 

* The crossing of the letter, begun at the 
words 'Have you not,' here dips into the ori- 
ginal writing. 



302 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



being as yet shut upon me — The first we 
step into we call the infant or thoughtless 
Chamber, in which we remain as long as 
we do not think — We remain there a long 
while, and notwithstanding the doors of the 
second Chamber remain wide open, showing 
a bright appearance, we care not to hasten 
to it; but are at length imperceptibly im- 
pelled by the awakening of the thinking 
principle within us — we no sooner get into 
the second Chamber, which I shall call the 
Chamber of Maiden-Thought, than we be- 
come intoxicated with the light and the 
atmosphere, we see nothing but pleasant 
wonders, and think of delaying there for 
ever in delight: However among the effects 
this breathing is father of is that tre- 
mendous one of sharpening one's vision 
into the heart and nature of Man — of con- 
vincing one's nerves that the world is full 
of Misery and Heart-break, Pain, Sickness, 
and oppression — whereby this Chamber 
of Maiden - Thought becomes gradually 
darkened, and at the same time, on all 
sides of it, many doors are set open — but 
all dark — all leading to dark passages — 
We see not the balance of good and evil 
— we are in a mist — we are now in that 
state — We feel the ' burden of the Mys- 
tery.' To this point was Wordsworth come, 
as far as I can conceive, when he wrote 
' Tintern Abbey,' and it seems to me that 
his Genius is explorative of those dark 
Passages. Now if we live, and go on think- 
ing, we too shall explore them — He is a 
genius and superior to us, in so far as he 
can, more than we, make discoveries and 
shed a light in them — Here I must think 
Wordsworth is deeper than Milton, though 
I think it has depended more upon the gen- 
eral and gregarious advance of intellect, 
than individual greatness of Mind — From 
the Paradise Lost and the other Works of 
Milton, I hope it is not too presuming, even 
between ourselves, to say, that his philoso- 
phy, human and divine, may be tolerably 
understood by one not much advanced in 
years. In his time. Englishmen were just 



emancipated from a great superstition, and 
Men had got hold of certain points and 
resting-places in reasoning which were too 
newly born to be doubted, and too much 
opposed by the Mass of Europe not to be 
thought ethereal and authentically divine 
— Who could gainsay his ideas on virtue, 
vice, and Chastity in Comus, just at the 
time of the dismissal of a hundred dis- 
graces ? who would not rest satisfied with 
his hintings at good and evil in the Paradise 
Lost, when just free from the Inquisition 
and burning in Smithfield ? The Reforma- 
tion produced such immediate and great 
benefits, that Protestantism was considered 
under the immediate eye of heaven, and its 
own remaining Dogmas and superstitions 
then, as it were, regenerated, constituted 
those resting-places and seeming sure points 
of Reasoning — from that I have men- 
tioned, Milton, whatever he may have 
thought in the sequel, appears to have been 
content with these by his writings — He 
did not think into the human heart as 
Wordsworth has done — Yet Milton as a 
Philosopher had sure as great powers as 
Wordsworth — What is then to be in- 
ferred ? (J many things — It proves there 
is really a grand march of intellect, — It 
proves that a mighty providence subdues 
the mightiest Minds to the service of the 
time being, whether it be in human Know- 
ledge or Religion. I have often pitied a 
tutor who has to hear 'Nom. Musa' so 
often dinn'd into his ears — I hope you 
may not have the same pain in this scrib- 
bling — I may have read these things 
before, but I never had even a thus dim 
perception of them; and moreover I like to 
say my lesson to one who will endure my 
tediousness for my own sake — After all 
there is certainly something real in the 
world — Moore's present to Hazlitt is real 

— I like that Moore, and am glad I saw 
him at the Theatre just before I left Town. 
Tom has spit a leetle blood this afternoon, 
and that is rather a damper — but I know 

— the truth is there is something real in the 



TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 



303 



World. Your third Chamber of Life shall 
be a lucky and a gentle one — stored with 
the wine of love — and the Bread of Friend- 
ship — When you see George if he should 
not have received a letter from me tell him 
he will find one at home most likely — tell 
Bailey I hope soon to see him — Remember 
me to all. The leaves have been out here 
for mony a day — I have written to George 
for the first stanzas of my Isabel — I shall 
have them soon, and will copy the whole out 
for you. 

Your affectionate Friend John Keats. 

52. TO MRS. JEFFREY 

Honiton, [May, 1818]. 

My dear Mrs. Jeffrey — My Brother 
has borne his Journey thus far remarkably 
well. I am too sensible of your anxiety for 
us not to send this by the chaise back 
for you. Give our goodbyes to Marrian 
and Fanny. Believe me we shall bear 
you in Mind and that I shall write soon. 

Yours very truly, John Keats. 

53. TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 

Hampstead, Thursday [May 28, 1818]. 
My dear Bailey — I should have an- 
swered your Letter on the Moment, if I 
could have said yes to your invitation. 
What hinders me is insuperable: I will tell 
it at a little length. You know my Brother 
George has been out of employ for some 
time: it has weighed very much upon him, 
and driven him to scheme and turn over 
things in his Mind. The result has been 
his resolution to emigrate to the back 
Settlements of America, become Farmer 
and work with his own hands, after pur- 
chasing 14 hundred acres of the American 
Government. This for, many reasons has 
met with my entire Consent — and the 
chief one is this; he is of too independent 
and liberal a Mind to get on in Trade in 
this Country, in which a generous Man 
with a scanty resource must be ruined. I 



would sooner he should till the ground than 
bow to a customer. There is no choica 
with him : he could not bring himself to the 
latter. I would not consent to his going 
alone; — no — but that objection is done 
away with: he will marry before he sets 
sail a young lady he has known for several 
years, of a nature liberal and highspirited 
enough to follow him to the Banks of the 
Mississippi. He will set off in a month or 
six weeks, and you will see how I should 
wish to pass that time with him. — And 
then I must set out on a journey of my 
own. Brown and I are going a pedestrian 
tour through the north of England and 
Scotland as far as John o' Grot's. I have 
this morning such a lethargy that I cannot 
write. The reason of my delaying is often- 
times from this feeling, — I wait for a 
proper temper. Now you ask for an im- 
mediate answer, I do not like to wait even 
till to-morrow. However, I am now so 
depressed that I have not an idea to put to 
paper — my hand feels like lead — and yet 
it is an unpleasant numbness; it does not 
take away the pain of Existence. I don't 
know what to write. 

Monday [June 1]. 
You see how I have delayed; and even 
now I have but a confused idea of what I 
should be about. My intellect must be in 
a degenerating state — it must be — for 
when I should be writing about — God 
knows what — I am troubling you with 
moods of my own mind, or rather body, for 
miud there is none. I am in that temper 
that if I were under water I would scarcely 
kick to come up to the top — I know very 
well 't is all nonsense — In a short time I 
hope I shall be in a temper to feel sensibly 
your mention of my book. In vain have I 
waited till Monday to have any Interest in 
that or anything else. I feel no spur at 
my Brother's going to America, and am 
almost stony-hearted about his wedding. 
All this will blow over — All I am sorry 
for is having to write to you in such a time 
— but I cannot force my letters in a hot- 



304 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



bed. I could not feel comfortable in mak- 
ing sentences for you. I am your debtor 
— I must ever remain so — nor do I wish 
to be clear of any Rational debt: there is 
a comfort in throwing oneself on the charity 
of one's friends — 't is like the albatross 
sleeping on its wings. 1 will be to you 
wine in the cellar, and the more modestly, 
or rather, indolently, I retire into the back- 
ward bin, the more Falerne will I be at the 
drinking. There is one thing I must men- 
tion — my Brother talks of sailing in a 
fortnight — if so I will most probably be 
with you a week before I set out for Scot- 
land. The middle of your first page should 
be sufficient to rouse me. What I said is 
true, and 1 have dreamt of your mention of 
it, and my not answering it has weighed on 
me since. If I come, I will bring your letter, 
and hear more fully your sentiments on one 
or two points. I will call about the Lec- 
tures at Taylor's, and at Little Britain, to- 
morrow. Yesterday I dined with Hazlitt, 
Barnes, and Wilkie, at Haydon's. The 
topic was the Duke of Wellington — very 
amusingly pro-aud-con'd. Reynolds has 
been getting much better; and Rice may 
begin to crow, for he got a little so-so at a 
party of his, and was none the worse for it 
the next morning. I hope I shall soon see 
you, for we must have many new thoughts 
and feelings to analyse, and to discover 
whether a little more knowledge has not 
i made us more ignorant. 

Yours affectionately John Keats. 

54. TO MISSES M. AND S. JEFFREY 

Hampstead, June 4th [1818.] 
My dear Girls — I will not pretend to 
string a list of excuses together for not 
having written before — but must at once 
confess, the indolence of my disposition, 
which makes a letter more formidable to me 
than a Pilgrimage. I am a fool in delay for 
the idea of neglect is an everlasting Knap- 
sack which even now I have scarce power to 
hoist off. By the bye talking of everlast- 



ing Knapsacks I intend to make my fortune 
by them in case of a War (which you must 
consequently pray for) by contracting with 
Government for said material to the econ- 
omy of one branch of the Revenue. At 
all events a Tax which is taken from the 
people and shoulder'd upon the Military 
ought not to be snubb'd at. I promised 
to send you all the news. Harkee ! The 
whole city corporation, with a deputation 
from the Fire Offices are now engaged at 
the London Coffee house in secret conclave 
concerning Saint Paul's Cathedral its being 
washed clean. Many interesting speeches 
have been demosthenized in said Coffee 
house as to the Cause of the black appear- 
ance of the said Cathedral. One of the 
veal-thigh Aldermen actually brought up 
three Witnesses to depose how they beheld 
the ci-devant fair Marble turn black on the 
tolling of the great Bell for the amiable 
and tea-table-lamented Princess — adding 
moreover that this sort of sympathy in in- 
animate objects was by no means uncom- 
mon for said the Gentleman ' As we were 
once debating in the Common Hall Mr. 
W^aithman in illustration of some case in 
point quoted Peter Pindar, at which the 
head of George the third although in hard 
marble squinted over the Mayor's seat at 
the honorable speaker so oddly that he was 
obliged to sit down.' However I will not 
tire you about these Affairs for they must 
be in your Newspapers by this time. You 
see how badly I have written these last 
three lines so I will remain here and take 
a pinch of snuff every five Minutes until 
my head becomes fit and proper and legiti- 
mately inclined to scribble — Oh ! there 's 
nothing like a pinch of snuff except perhaps 
a few trifles almost beneath a philosopher's 
dignity, such as a ripe Peach or a Kiss that 
one takes on a lease of 91 moments — on a 
buildling lease. Talking of that is the Capt° 
married yet, or rather married Miss Mitchel 
— is she stony hearted enough to hold out 
this season ? Has the Doctor given Miss 
Perryman a little love powder ? — tell him 



TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 



305 



to do so. It really would not be unamusing 
to see her languish a little — Oh she must 
be quite melting this hot Weather. Are 
the little Robins weaned yet ? Do they 
walk alone ? You have had a christening 
a top o' the tiles and a Hawk has stood 
Godfather and taken the little brood under 
the Shadows of its Wings much in the way 
of Mother Church — a Cat too has very 
tender bowels in such pathetic cases. They 
say we are all (that is our set) mad at 
Hampstead. There 's George took unto 
himself a Wife a Week ago and will in a 
little time sail for America — and I with a 
friend am preparing for a four Months 
Walk all over the North — and belike Tom 
will not stop here — he has been getting 
much better — Lord what a Journey I had 
and what a relief at the end of it — I 'm 
sure I could not have stood it many more 
days. Hampstead is now in fine order. I 
suppose Teignmouth and the contagious 
country is now quite remarkable — you 
might praise it I dare say in the manner of 
a grammatical exercise — The trees are full 

— the den is crowded — the boats are sail- 
ing — the musick is playing. I wish you 
were here a little while — but lank we 
have n't got any female friend in the house. 
Tom is taken for a Madman and I being 
somewhat stunted am taken for nothing — 
We lounge on the Walk opposite as you 
might on the Den — I hope the fine season 
will keep up your Mother's Spirits — she 
was used to be too much down hearted. 
No Women ought to be born into the world 
for they may not toucli the bottle for shame 

— now a Man may creep into a bung-hole 

— However this is a tale of a tub — how- 
ever I like to play upon a pipe sitting upon 
a puncheon and intend to be so drawn in 
the frontispiece to my next book of Pas- 
torals — My Brothers' respects and mine to 
your Mother and all our Loves to you. 

Yours very sincerely, John Keats. 
P. S. has many significations — here it 
signifies Post Script — on the corner of a 



Handkerchef Polly Saunders — Upon a 
Garter Pretty Secret — Upon a Band Box 
Pink Sattin — At the Theatre Princes Side 
— on a Pulpit Parson's Snuffle — and at a 
Country Ale House Pail Sider. 

55. TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 

London [June 10, 1818]. 
My DEAR Bailey — I have been very 
much gratified and very much hurt by your 
letters in the Oxford Paper: because in- 
dependent of that unlawful and mortal feel- 
ing of pleasure at praise, there is a glory in 
enthusiasm ; and because the world is malig- 
nant enough to chuckle at the most honour- 
able Simplicity. Yes, on my soul, my dear 
Bailey, you are too simple for the world — 
and that Idea makes me sick of it. How 
is it that by extreme opposites we have, 
as it were, got discontented nerves ? You 
have all your life (I think so) believed 
everybody. I have suspected everybody. 
And, although you have been so deceived, 
you make a simple appeal — the world has 
something else to do, and I am glad of it — 
Were it in my choice, I would reject a 
Petrarchal coronation — on account of my 
dying day, and because women have cancers. 
I should not by rights speak in this tone to 
you for it is an incendiary spirit that would 
do so. Yet I am not old enough or magnan- 
imous enough to anniliilate self — and it 
would perhaps be paying you an ill compli- 
ment. I was in hopes some little time 
back to be able to relieve your dulness by 
my spirits — to point out things in the 
world worth your enjoyment — and now I 
am never alone without rejoicing that there 
is such a thing as death — without placing 
my ultimate in the glory of dying for a 
great human purpose. Perhaps if my affairs 
were in a different state, I should not have 
written the above — you shall judge: I 
have two brothers; one is driven, by the 
'burden of Society,' to America; the other 
with an exquisite love of life, is in a linger- 



3o6 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



ing state — My love for my Brothers, from 
the early loss of our Parents, and even 
from earlier misfortunes, has grown into 
an affection 'passing the love of women.' 
I have been ill-tempered with them — I 
have vexed them — but the thought of 
them has always stifled the impression that 
any woman might otherwise have made 
upon me. I have a sister too, and may not 
follow them either to America or to the 
grave. Life must be undergone, and I 
certainly derive some consolation from the 
thought of writing one or two more poems 
before it ceases. 

I have heard some hints of your retiring 
to Scotland — I shall like to know your 
feeling on it — it seems rather remote. 
Perhaps Gleig will have a duty near you. 
I am not certain whether I shall be able to 
go any journey, on account of my Brother 
Tom, and a little indisposition of my own. 
If I do not you shall see me soon, if no on 
my return or I '11 quarter myself on you 
next winter. I had known my sister-in-law 
some time before she was my sister, and 
was very fond of her. I like her better 
and better. She is the most disinterested 
woman I ever knew — that is to say, she 
goes beyond degree in it. To see an en- 
tirely disinterested girl quite happy is the 
most pleasant and extraordinary thing in 
the world — It depends upon a thousand 
circumstances — On my word it is extra- 
ordinary. Women must want Imagination, 
and they may thank God for it; and so 
may we, that a delicate being can feel 
happy without any sense of crime. It puz- 
zles me, and I have no sort of logic to 
comfort me — I shall think it over. I am 
not at home, and your letter being there I 
camiot look it over to answer any particular 
— only I must say I feel that passage of 
Dante. If I take any book with me it 
shall be those minute volumes of Carey, for 
they will go into the aptest corner. 

Reynolds is getting, I may say, robust, 
his illness has been of service to him — like 
every one just recovered, he is high-spirited 



— I hear also good accounts of Rice. With 
respect to domestic literature, the Edin- 
burgh Magazine, in another blow-up against 
Hunt, calls me ' the amiable Mister Keats ' 

— and I have more than a laurel from 
the Quarterly Reviewers for they have 
smothered me in Foliage. I want to read 
you my ' Pot of Basil ' — if you go to Scot- 
land, I should much like to read it there to 
you, among the snows of next winter. My 
Brothers' remembrances to you. 

Your affectionate friend John Keats. 



56. TO JOHN TAYLOK 

[Hampstead,] Sunday Evening 
[June 21, 1818]. 
My dear Taylor — I am sorry I have 
not had time to call and wish you health 
till my return — Really I have been hard 
run these last three days — However, an 
re voir, God keep us all well ! I start to- 
morrow Morning. My brother Tom will I 
am afraid be lonely. I can scarce ask a 
loan of books for him, since I still keep 
those you lent me a year ago. If I am 
overweening, you will I know be indulgent. 
Therefore when you shall write, do send 
him some you think will be most amus- 
ing — he will be careful in returning them. 
Let him have one of my books bound. I 
am ashamed to catalogue these messages. 
There is but one more, which ought to go 
for nothing as there is a lady concerned. 
I promised Mrs. Reynolds one of my books 
bound. As I cannot write in it let the 
opposite ^^ be pasted in 'prythee. Remem- 
ber me to Percy St. — Tell Hilton that one 
gratification on my return will be to find 
him engaged on a history piece to- his own 
content — And tell Dewint I shall become 
a disputant on the landscape — Bow for 
me very genteelly to Mrs. D. or she will 
not admit your diploma. Remember me 
to Hessey, saying I hope he '11 Cary his 
point. I would not forget Woodhouse. 
Adieu ! 

Your sincere friend John o' Grots. 



__/ 



TO THOMAS KEATS 



307 



57. TO THOMAS KEATS 

Keswick, June 29th [1818]. 
My dear Tom — I cannot make my 
Journal as distinct and actual as I could 
wish, from having been engaged in writing 
to George, and therefore I must tell you 
without circumstance that we proceeded 
from Ambleside to Rydal, saw the Water- 
falls there, and called on Wordsworth, who 
was not at home, nor was any one of his 
family. I wrote a note and left it on the 
mantel-piece. Thence on we came to the 
foot of Helvellyn, where we slept, but 
could not ascend it for the mist. I must 
mention that from Rydal we passed Thirls- 
water, and a fine pass in the Mountains — 
from Helvellyn we came to Keswick on 
Derwent Water. The approach to Derwent 
Water surpassed Windermere — it is richly 
wooded, and shut in with rich-toned Moun- 
tains. From Helvellyn to Keswick was 
eight miles to Breakfast, after which we 
took a complete circuit of the Lake, going 
about ten miles, and seeing on our way the 
Fall of Lowdore. I had an easy climb 
among the streams, about the fragments of 
Rocks and should have got I think to the 
summit, but unfortunately I was damped 
by slipping one leg into a squashy hole. 
There is no great body of water, but the 
accompaniment is delightful; for it oozes 
out from a cleft in perpendicular Rocks, all 
fledged with Ash and other beautiful trees. 
It is a strange thing how they got there. 
At the south end of the Lake, the Moun- 
tains of Borrowdale are perhaps as fine as 
anything we have seen. On our return 
from this circuit, we ordered dinner, and 
set forth about a mile and a half on the 
Penrith road, to see the Druid temple. 
We had a fag up hill, rather too near 
dinner-time, which was rendered void by 
the gratification of seeing those aged stones 
on a gentle rise in the midst of the Moun- 
tains, which at that time darkened all 
around, except at the fresh opening of the 
Vale of St. John. We went to bed rather 



fatigued, but not so much so as to hinder 
us getting up this morning to mount Skid- 
daw. It promised all along to be fair, and 
we had fagged and tugged nearly to the top, 
when, at half-past six, there came a Mist 
upon us and shut out the view. We did not, 
however, lose anything by it : we were high 
enough without mist to see the coast of 
Scotland — the Irish Sea — the hills beyond 
Lancaster — and nearly all the large ones 
of Cumberland and Westmoreland, parti- 
cularly Helvellyn and Seawfell. It grew 
colder and colder as we ascended, and we 
were glad, at about three parts of the way, 
to taste a little ^rum which the Guide 
brought with him, mixed, mind ye, with 
Mountain water. I took two glasses going 
and one returning. It is about six miles 
from where I am writing to the top — So 
we have walked ten miles before Breakfast 
to-day. We went up with two others, very 
good sort of fellows — All felt, on arising 
into the cold air, that same elevation which 
a cold bath gives one — I felt as if I were 
going to a Tournament. 

Wordsworth's house is situated just on 
the rise of the foot of Mount Rydal; his 
parlour-window looks directly down Win- 
andermere; I do not think I told you how 
fine the Vale of Grasmere is, and how I 
discovered ' the ancient woman seated on 
Helm Crag ' — We shall proceed immedi- 
ately to Carlisle, intending to enter Scot- 
land on the 1st of July via — 

[Carlisle,] July 1st. 
We are this morning at Carlisle. After 
Skiddaw, we walked to Treby the oldest 
market town in Cumberland — where we 
were greatly amused by a country dancing- 
school holden at the Tun, it was indeed 'no 
new cotillon fresh from France.' No, they 
kickit and jumpit with mettle extraordi- 
nary, and wliiskit, and friskit, and toed it, 
and go'd it, and twirl'd it, and whirl'd it, 
and stamped it, and sweated it, tattooing 
the floor like mad. The difference between 
our country dances and these Scottish 



3o8 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



figures is about the same as leisurely stir- 
ring a cup o' Tea and beating up a batter- 
pudding. I was extremely gratified to 
think that, if I had pleasures they knew 
nothing of, they had also some into which 
I could not possibly enter. I hope I shall 
not return without having got the Highland 
fling. There was as fine a row of boys and 
girls as you ever saw; some beautiful faces, 
and one exquisite mouth. I never felt so 
near the glory of Patriotism, the glory 
of making by any means a country hap- 
pier. This is what I like better than 
scenery, I fear our continued moving 
from place to place will prevent our be- 
coming learned in village affairs: we are 
mere creatures of Rivers, Lakes, and Moun- 
tains. Our yesterday's journey was from 
Treby to Wigton, and from Wigton to 
Carlisle. The Cathedral does not appear 
very fine — the Castle is very ancient, and 
of brick. The City is very various — old 
white-washed narrow streets — broad red- 
brick ones more modern — I will tell you 
anon whether the inside of the Cathedral 
is worth looking at. It is built of sandy 
red stone or Brick. We have now walked 
114 miles, and are merely a little tired in 
the thighs, and a little blistered. We shall 
ride 38 miles to Dumfries, when we shall 
linger awhile about Nithsdale and Gallo- 
way. I have written two letters to Liver- 
pool. I found a letter from sister George; 
very delightful indeed: I shall preserve it 
in the bottom of my knapsack for you. 

[Dumfries, evening of same day, July 1.] 
You will see by this sonnet [' On visiting 
the tomb of Burns.' See p. 120] that I am 
at Dumfries. We have dined in Scotland. 
Burns's tomb is in the Churchyard corner, 
not very much to my taste, though on a 
scale large enough to show they wanted 
to honour him. Mrs. Burns lives in this 
place; most likely we shall see her to- 
morrow — This Sonnet I have written in a 
strange mood, half-asleep. I know not how 
it is, the Clouds, the Sky, the Houses, all 



seem anti-Grecian and anti-Charlemagnish. 
I will endeavour to get rid of my preju- 
dices and tell you fairly about the Scotch. 

[Dumfries,] July 2nd. 
In Devonshire they say, 'Well, where 
be ye going ? ' Here it is, ' How is it 
wi' yoursel ? ' A man on the Coach said 
the horses took a Hellish heap o' drivin'; 
the same fellow pointed out Burns's Tomb 
with a deal of life — ' There de ye see it, 
amang the trees — white, wi' a roond tap ? ' 
The first well-dressed Scotchman we had 
any conversation with, to our surprise con- 
fessed himself a Deist. The careful man- 
ner of delivering his opinions, not before 
he had received several encouraging hints 
from uSj was very amusing. Yesterday 
was an immense Horse-fair at Dumfries, so 
that we met numbers of men and women on 
the road, the women nearly all barefoot, 
with their shoes and clean stockings in 
hand, ready to put on and look smart in the 
Towns. There are plenty of wretched cot- 
tages whose smoke has no outlet but by 
the door. We have now begun upon 
Whisky, called here Whuskey, — very 
smart stuff it is. Mixed like our liquors, 
with sugar and water, 'tis called toddy; 
very pretty drink, and much praised by 
Burns. 

58. TO FANKY KEATS 

Dumfries, July 2nd [1818]. 
My dear Fanny — I intended to have 
written to you from Kirkcudbright, the 
town I shall be in to-morrow — but I will 
write now because my Knapsack has worn 
my coat in the Seams, my coat has gone to 
the Tailor's and I have but one Coat to my 
back in these parts. I must tell you how I 
went to Liverpool with George and our 
new Sister and the Gentleman my fellow 
traveller through the Summer and autumn 
— We had a tolerable journey to Liver- 
pool — which I left the next morning before 
George was up for Lancaster — Then we 



TO FANNY KEATS 



309 



set off from Lancaster on foot with our 
Knapsacks on, and have walked a Little 
zig-zag through the mountains and Lakes 
of Cumberland and Westmoreland — We 
came from Carlisle yesterday to this place 
— We are employed in going up Moun- 
tains, looking at strange towns, prying into 
old ruins and eating very hearty breakfasts. 
Here we are full in the Midst of broad 
Scotch * How is it a' wi' yoursel ' — the 
Girls are walking about bare-footed and in 
the worst cottages the smoke finds its way 
out of the door. I shall come home full of 
news for you and for fear I should choak 
you by too great a dose at once I must 
make you used to it by a letter or two. 
We have been taken for travelling Je ivel- 
lers, Razor sellers and Spectacle vendors 
because friend Brown wears a pair. The 
first place we stopped at with our Knapsacks 
contained one Richard Bradshaw, a noto- 
rious tippler. He stood in the shape of a 5 
and ballanced himself as well as he could 
saying with his nose right in Mr. Brown's 
face • Do — yo — u sell speec — ta — cles ? * 
Mr. Abbey says we are Don Quixotes — 
tell him we are more generally taken for 
Pedlars. All I hope is that we may not be 
taken for excisemen in this whisky coun- 
try. We are generally up about 5 walking 
before breakfast and we complete our 20 
miles before dinner. — Yesterday we vis- 
ited Burns's Tomb aad this morning the 
fine Ruins of Lincluden. 

[Aucheneairn, same day, July 2.] 
I had done thus far when my coat came 
back fortified at all points — so as we lose 
no time we set forfch again through Gallo- 
way — all very pleasant and pretty with 
no fatigue when ou'e is used to it — We are 
in the midst of Meg Merrilies's country of 
whom I suppose you have heard. 
[Here follow the lines, 'Meg Merrilies,' p. 243.] 
If you like these soit of ballads I will 
now and then scribble one for you — if I 
send any to Tom I '11 tell him to send them 
to you. 



[Kirkcudbright, evening of same day, July 2,] 
I have so many interruptions that I can- 
not manage to fill a Letter in one day — 
since I scribbled the song we have walked 
through a beautiful Country to Kirkcud- 
bright — at which place I will write you a 
song about myself — 

[Here Keats throws off the nonsense lines 
'There was a Naughty Boy,' given in the Ap- 
pendix, p, 244.] 

[Newton Stewart, July 4.] 

My dear Fanny, I am ashamed of writing 
you such stuff, nor would I if it were not for 
being tired after my day's walking, and 
ready to tumble into bed so fatigued that 
when I am asleep you might sew my nose 
to my great toe and trundle me round the 
town, like a Hoop, without waking me. 
Then I get so hungry a Ham goes but a 
very little way and fowls are like Larks to 
me — A Batch of Bread I make no more 
ado with than a sheet of parliament ; and I 
can eat a Bull's head as easily as I used to 
do Bull's eyes. I take a whole string of 
Pork Sausages down as easily as a Pen'orth 
of Lady's fingers. Ah dear I must soon be 
contented with an acre or two of oaten cake 
a hogshead of Milk and a Clothes-basket of 
Eggs morning noon and night when I get 
among the Highlanders. Before we see 
them we shall pass into Ireland and have 
a chat with the Paddies, and look at the 
Giant's Causeway which you must have 
heard of — I have not time to tell you 
particularly for I have to send a Journal 
to Tom of whom you shall hear all particu- 
lars or from me when I return. Since I 
began this we have walked sixty miles to 
Newton Stewart at which place I put in this 
Letter — to-night we sleep at Glenluce — 
to-morrow at Portpatrick and the next day 
we shall cross in the passage boat to Ireland. 
I hope Miss Abbey has quite recovered. 
Present my Respects to her and to Mr. 
and Mrs. Abbey. God bless you. 

Your affectionate Brother, John. 

Do write me a Letter directed to Inver- 
ness, Scotland. 



3IO 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



59. TO THOMAS KEATS 

Auchtercairn [for Auchencairn,] 

3rd [for 2d] July 1818. 

My dear Tom — We are now in Meg 

Merrilies's country, and have this morning 
passed through some parts exactly suited 
to her. Kirkcudbright County is very 
beautiful, very wild, with craggy hills, 
somewhat in the Westmoreland fashioii. 
We have come down from Dumfries to the 
sea-coast part of it. The following song 
[the Meg Merrilies piece] you will have 
from Dilke, but perhaps you would like it 
here. 

[Newton Stewart,] July 5th [for 4th]. 
Yesterday was passed in Kirkcudbright, 
the country is very rich, very fine, and with 
a little of Devon. I am now writing at 
Newton Stewart, six miles into Wigtown. 
Our landlady of yesterday said very few 
southerners passed hereaways. The chil- 
dren jabber away, as if in a foreign lan- 
guage ; the bare - footed girls look very 
much in keeping, I mean with the scenery 
about them. Brown praises their cleanli- 
ness and appearance of comfort, the neat- 
ness of their cottages, etc. — it may be — 
they are very squat among trees and fern 
and heath and broom, on levels slopes and 
heights — but I wish they were as snug as 
those up the Devonshire valleys. We are 
lodged and entertained in great varieties. 
We dined yesterday on dirty Bacon, dirtier 
eggs, and dirtiest potatoes, with a slice of 
salmon — we breakfast this morning in a 
nice carpeted room, with sofa, hair-bot- 
tomed Chairs, and green-baized Mahogany. 
A spring by the road-side is always wel- 
come : we drink water for dinner, diluted 
with a Gill of whisky. 

[Donaghadee] July 6. 

Yesterday morning we set out from 

Glenluce, going some distance round to see 

some rivers : they were scarcely worth the 

while. We went on to Stranraer, in a 



burning sun, and had gone about six miles 
when the Mail overtook us : we got up, 
were at Port Patrick in a jiffey, and 1 am 
writing now in little Ireland. The dialects 
on the neighbouring shores of Scotland and 
Ireland are much the same, yet I can per- 
ceive a great difference in the nations, from 
the chamber-maid at this nate toone kept by 
Mr. Kelly. She is fair, kind, and ready to 
laugh, because she is out of the horrible 
dominion of the Scotch Kirk. A Scotch 
girl stands in terrible awe of the Elders — 
poor little Susannahs, they will scarcely 
laugh, and their Kirk is greatly to be 
damned. These Kirk-men have done Scot- 
land good (Query ?). They have made 
men , women ; old men, young men ; old 
women, young women ; boys, girls ; and 
all infants careful — so that they are 
formed into regular Phalanges of savers 
and gainers. Such a thrifty army cannot 
fail to enrich their Country, and give it a 
greater appviarance of Comfort, than that 
of their pooi rash neighbourhood — these 
Kirk-men hate done Scotland harm ; they 
have banished p:uns, and laughing, and kiss- 
ing, etc. (except in cases where the very 
danger and crime must make it very gust- 
ful). I shall make a' full stop at kissing, 
for after that there should be a better 
parenthesis, and go on to remind you of 
the fate of Burns — poor unfortunate fel- 
low, his disposition was Southern — how 
sad it is when a luxurious imagination is 
obliged, in self-defencje, to deaden its del- 
icacy in vulgarity, ami rot (?) in things 
attainable, that it may not have leisure to 
go mad after things which are not. No 
man, in such matters, will be content with 
the experience of othei'S — It is true that 
out of suffering there is no dignity, no 
greatness, that in th^ most abstracted 
pleasure there is no lasting happiness — 
Yet who would not like to discover over 
again that Cleopatra was a Gipsy, Helen a 
rogue, and Ruth ft deep one ? I have not 
sufficient reasoning faculty to settle the 
doctrine of thrift, as it is consistent with 



TO THOMAS KEATS 



311 



the dignity of human Society ; — with the 
happiness of Cottagers. All I can do is by 
X ^jlump contrasts ; were the fingers made to 
squeeze a guinea or a white hand ? — were 
the lips made to hold a pen or a kiss ? and 
yet in Cities man is shut out from his fel- 
lows if he is poor — the cottager must be 
very dirty, and very wretched, if she be not 
thrifty — the present state of society de- 
mands this, and this convinces me that the 
world is very young, and in a very ignorant 
state — We live in a barbarous age — I 
would sooner be a wild deer, than a girl 
under the dominion of the Kirk ; and I 
would sooner be a wild hog, than be the oc- 
casion of a poor Creature's penance before 
those execrable elders. 

It is not so far to the Giant's Causeway 
as we supposed — We thought it 70, and 
hear it is only 48 miles — So we shall leave 
one of our knapsacks here at Donaghadee, 
take our immediate wants, and be back 
in a week, when we shall proceed to the 
County of Ayr. In the Packet yesterday 
we heard some ballads from two old men 
— One was a Romance which seemed very 
poor — then there was ' The Battle of the 
Boyne,' then ' Robin Huid,' as they call 
him — ' Before the King you shall go, go, 
go; before the King you shall go.' 

[Stranraer,] July 9th. 
We stopped very little in Ireland, and 
that you may not have leisure to marvel at 
our speedy return to Port Patrick, I will 
tell you that it is as dear living in Ireland 
as at the Hummums — thrice the expense 
of Scotland — it would have cost us £ 15 
before our return ; moreover we found 
those 48 miles to be Irish ones, which reach 
to 70 English — so having walked to Bel- 
fast one day, and back to Donaghadee the 
next, we left Ireland with a fair breeze. 
We slept last night at Port Patrick, when 
I was gratified by a letter from you. On 
our walk in Ireland, we had too much op- 
portunity to see the worse than nakedness, 
the rags, the dirt and misery, of the poor 



common Irish — A Scotch cottage, though 
in that sometimes the smoke has no exit 
but at the door, is a palace to an Irish one. 
We could observe that impetuosity in Man 
and Woman — We had the pleasure of find- 
ing our way through a Peat-bog, three 
miles long at least — dreary, flat, dank, 
black, and spongy — here and there were 
poor dirty Creatures, and a few strong men 
cutting or carting Peat — We heard on 
passing into Belfast through a most wretch- 
ed suburb, that most disgusting of all 
noises, worse than the Bagpipes — the 
laugh of a Monkey — the chatter of women 
— the scream of a Macaw — I mean the 
sound of the Shuttle. What a tremendous 
difficulty is the improvement of such people. 
I cannot conceive how a mind " with child " 
of philanthropy could grasp at its possi- 
bility — with me it is absolute despair — 
At a miserable house of entertainment, 
half-way between Donaghadee and Belfast, 
were two men sitting at Whisky — one a 
labourer, and the other I took to be a 
drunken weaver — the labourer took me to 
be a Frenchman, and the other hinted at 
bounty-money ; saying he was ready to 
take it — On calling for the letters at Port 
Patrick, the man snapped out " what Regi- 
ment ? " On our return from Belfast we 
met a sedan — the Duchess of Dunghill. 
It is no laughing matter though. Imagine 
the worst dog-kennel you ever saw, placed 
upon two poles from a mouldy fencing — 
In such a wretched thing sat a squalid old 
woman, squat like an ape half - starved, 
from a scarcity of biscuit in its passage 
from Madagascar to the Cape, with a pipe 
in her mouth, and looking out with a round- 
eyed skinny-lidded inanity; with a sort of 
horizontal idiotic movement of her head — 
Squat and lean she sat, and puffed out 
the smoke, while two ragged tattered girls 
carried her along. What a thing would be 
a history of her life and sensations ; I shall 
endeavour when I have thought a little 
more, to give you my idea of the difference 
between the Scotch and Irish — The two 



312 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



Irishmen I mentioned were speaking of 
their treatment in England, when the 
weaver said — " Ah you were a civil man, 
but I was a drinker." 

Till further notice you must direct to 
Inverness. 

Your most affectionate Brother 

John. 

60. TO THE SAME 

Belautree [for Ballantrae,] July 10. 
My dear Tom — The reason for my 
writing these lines [' Ah ! ken ye what I 
met the day,' p. 145] was that Brown 
wanted to impose a Galloway song upon 
Dilke — but it won't do. The subject I got 
from meeting a wedding just as we came 
down into this place — where I am afraid 
we shall be imprisoned a while by the 
weather. Yesterday we came 27 Miles 
from Stranraer — entered Ayrshire a little 
beyond Cairn, and had our path through a 
delightful Country. I shall endeavour that 
you may follow our steps in this walk — it 
would be uninteresting in a Book of Travels 

— it can not be interesting but by my hav- 
ing gone through it. When we left Cairn 
our Road lay half way up the sides of a 
green mountainous shore, full of clefts of 
verdure and eternally varying — sometimes 
up sometimes down, and over little Bridges 
going across green chasms of moss, rock 
and trees — winding about everywhere. 
After two or three Miles of this we turned 
suddenly into a magnificent glen finely 
wooded in Parts — seven Miles long — with 
a Mountain stream winding down the Midst 

— full of cottages in the most happy situa- 
tions — the sides of the Hills covered with 
sheep — the effect of cattle lowing I never 
had so finely. At the end we had a gradual 
ascent and got among the tops of the Moun- 
tains whence in a little time I descried in 
the Sea Ailsa Rock 940 feet high — it was 
15 Miles distant and seemed close upon us. 
The effect of Ailsa with the peculiar per- 
spective of the Sea in connection with the 
ground we stood on, and the misty rain 



then falling gave me a complete Idea of a 
deluge. Ailsa struck me very suddenly — 
really I was a little alarmed. 

[Girvan, same day, July 10.] 
Thus far had I written before we set out 
this morning. Now we are at Girvan 13 
Miles north of Belantree. Our Walk has 
been along a more grand shore to-day than 
yesterday — Ailsa beside us all the way. — 
From the heights we could see quite at 
home Cantire and the large Mountains of 
Arran, one of the Hebrides. We are in 
comfortable Quarters. The Rain we feared 
held up bravely and it has been 'fu fine 
this day.' — To-morrow we shall be at Ayr. 

[Kirkoswald, July 11.] 
'T is now the 11th of July and we have 
come 8 Miles to Breakfast to Kirkoswald. 
I hope the next Kirk will be Kirk Alloway. 
I have nothing of consequence to say now 
concerning our journey — so I will speak as 
far as I can judge on the Irish and Scotch 
— I know nothing of the higher Classes — 
yet I have a persuasion that there the Irish 
are victorious. As to the profanum vulgus 
I must incline to the Scotch. They never 
laugh — but they are always comparatively 
neat and clean. Their constitutions are not 
so remote and puzzling as the Irish. The 
Scotchman will never give a decision on 
any point — he will never commit himself 
in a sentence which may be referred to as 
a meridian in his notion of things — so that 
you do not know him — and yet you may 
come in uigher neighbourhood to him than 
to the Irishman who commits himself in so 
many places that it dazes your head. A 
Scotchman's motive is more easily dis- 
covered than an Irishman's. A Scotchman 
will go wisely about to deceive you, an Irish- 
man cunningly. An Irishman would bluster 
out of any discovery to his disadvantage. A 
Scotchman would retire perhaps without 
much desire for revenge. An Irishman 
likes to be thought a gallons fellow. A 
Scotchman is contented with himself. It 



TO THOMAS KEATS 



313 



seems to me they are both sensible of the 
Character they hold in England and act 
accordingly to Englishmen. Thus the 
Scotchman will become over grave and 
over decent and the Irishman over-impetu- 
oiis. I like a Scotchman best because he 
is less of a bore — I like the Irishman best 
because he ought to be more comfortable. 

— The Scotchman has made up his Mind 
within himself in a sort of snail shell wis- 
dom. The Irishman is full of strougheaded 
instinct. The Scotchman is farther in Hu- 
manity than the Irishman — there he will 
stick perhaps when the Irishman will be 
refined beyond him — for the former thinks 
he cannot be improved — the latter would 
grasp at it for ever, place but the good 
plain before him. 

Maybole [same day, July 11]. 

Since breakfast we have come only four 

Miles to dinner, not merely, for we have 

examined in the way two Ruins, one of 

them very fine, called Crossraguel Abbey 

— there is a winding Staircase to the top 
of a little Watch Tower. 

Kingswells, July 13. 

I have been writing to Reynolds — there- 
fore any particulars since Kirkoswald 
have escaped me — from said Kirk we went 
to Maybole to dinner — then we set for- 
ward to Burness' town Ayr — the approach 
to it is extremely fine — quite outwent my 
expectations — richly meadowed, wooded, 
heathed and rivuleted — with a grand Sea 
view terminated by the black Mountains of 
the isle of Arran. As soon as I saw them 
so nearly I said to myself ' How is it they 
did not beckon Burns to some grand at- 
tempt at Epic ? ' 

The bonny Doon is the sweetest river I 
ever saw — overhung with fine trees as far 
as we could see — We stood some time 
on the Brig across it, over which Tarn o' 
Shanter fled — we took a pinch of snuff 
on the Key stone — then we proceeded to 
the 'auld Kirk Alio way.' As we were 



looking at it a Farmer pointed the spots 
where Mungo's Mither haug'd hersel' 
and ' drunken Charlie brake 's neck's bane.' 
Then we proceeded to the Cottage he was 
born in — there was a board to that effect 
by the door side — it had the same effect 
as the same sort of memorial at Stratford 
on Avon. We drank some Toddy to Burns's 
Memory with an old Man who knew Burns 

— damn him and damn his anecdotes — he 
was a great bore — it was impossible for a 
Southron to understand above 5 words in a 
hundred. — There was something good in 
his description of Burns's melancholy the 
last time he saw him. I was determined 
to write a sonnet in the Cottage — I did — 
but it was so bad I cannot venture it here. 

Next we walked into Ayr Town and be- 
fore we went to Tea saw the new Brig and 
the Auld Brig and Wallace tower. Yester- 
day we dined with a Traveller. We were 
talking about Keau. He said he had seen 
him at Glasgow ' in Othello in the Jew, I 
mean er, er, er, the Jew in Shylock.' He 
got bother'd completely in vague ideas of 
the Jew in Othello, Shylock in the Jew, 
Shylock in Othello, Othello in Shylock, the 
Jew in Othello, etc. etc. etc. — he left him- 
self in a mess at last. — Still satisfied with 
himself be went to the Window and gave 
an abortive whistle of some tune or other 

— it might have been Handel. There is no 
end to these Mistakes — he '11 go and tell 
people how he has seen ' Malvolio in the 
Countess ' — ' Twelfth night in Midsum- 
mer night's dream ' — Bottom in much 
ado about Nothing — Viola in Barrymore 

— Antony in Cleopatra — Falstaff in the 
mouse Trap. — 

[Glasgow,] July 14. 
We enter'd Glasgow last Evening under 
the most oppressive Stare a body could feel. 
When we had crossed the Bridge Brown 
look'd back and said its whole population 
had turned out to wonder at us — we came 
on till a drunken Man came up to me — I 
put him off with my Arm — he returned all 
up in Arms saying aloud that, ' he had 



314 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



seen all foreigners bu-u-ut he never saw 
the like o' me.' I was obliged to mention 
the word Officer and Police before he 
would desist. — The City of Glasgow I take 
to be a very fine one — I was astonished to 
hear it was twice the size of Edinburgh. It 
is built of Stone and has a much more solid 
appearance than London. We shall see 
the Cathedral this morning — they have 
devilled it into ' High Kirk.' I want very 
much to know the name of the ship George 
is gone in — also what port he will land in 

— I know nothing about it. I hope you 
are leading a quiet Life and gradually im- 
proving. Make a long lounge of the whole 
Summer — by the time the Leaves fall I 
shall be near you with plenty of confab — 
there are a thousand things I cannot write. 
Take care of yourself — I mean in not be- 
ing vexed or bothered at anything. 

God bless you ! John . 

61. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 

Maybole, July 11 [1818]. 
My dear Reynolds — I '11 not run over 
the Ground we have passed ; that would be 
merely as bad as telling a dream — unless 
perhaps I do it in the manner of the Lapu- 
tan printing press — that is I put down 
Mountains, Rivers Lakes, dells, glens, 
Rocks, and Clouds, with beautiful enchant- 
ing, Gothic picturesque fine, delightful, en- 
chanting. Grand, sublime — a few blisters, 
etc. — and now you have our journey thus 
far : where I begin a letter to you because 
I am approaching Burns's Cottage very 
fast. We have made continual inquiries 
from the time we saw his Tomb at Dum- 
fries — his name of course is known all 
about — his great reputation among the 
plodding people is, ' that he wrote a good 
mony sensible things.' One of the plea- 
santest means of annulling self is approach- 
ing such a shrine as the Cottage of Burns 

— we need not think of his misery — that 
is all gone, bad luck to it — I shall look 
upon it hereafter with unmixed pleasure, 



as I do upon my Stratford-on-Avon day 
with Bailey. I shall fill this sheet for you 
in the Bardie's country, going no further 
than this till I get into the town of Ayr 
which will be a 9 miles' walk to Tea. 

[Kingswells, July 13.] 
We were talking on different and indif- 
ferent things, when on a sudden we turned 
a corner upon the immediate Country of 
Ayr — the Sight was as rich as possible. I 
had no Conception that the native place of 
Burns was so beautiful — the idea I had 
was more desolate, his * rigs of Barley ' 
seemed always to me but a few strips of 
Green on a cold hill — O prejudice! it was 
as rich as Devon — I endeavoured to drink 
in the Prospect, that I might spin it out to 
you as the Silkworm makes silk from 
Mulberry leaves — I cannot recollect it — 
Besides all the Beauty, there were the 
Mountains of Arran Isle, black and huge 
over the Sea. We came down upon every- 
thing suddenly — there were in our way 
the ' bonny Doon,' with the Brig that Tam 
o' Shanter crossed, Kirk Alloway, Burns's 
Cottage, and then the Brigs of Ayr. First 
we stood upon the Bridge across the Doon; 
surrounded by every Phantasy of green in 
Tree, Meadow, and Hill, — the stream of 
the Doon, as a Farmer told us, is covered 
with trees from head to foot — you know 
those beautiful heaths so fresh against the 
weather of a summer's evening — there 
was one stretching along behind the trees. 
I wish I knew always the humour my 
friends would be in at opening a letter of 
mine, to suit it to them as nearly as possi- 
ble. I could always find an egg shell for 
Melancholy, and as for Merriment a Witty 
humour will turn anything to Account — 
My head is sometimes in such a whirl in 
considering the million likings and anti- 
pathies of our Moments — that I can get 
into no settled strain in my Letters. My 
Wig ! Burns and sentimentality coming 
across you and Frank Fladgate in the of- 
fice — O scenery that thou shouldst be 



TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 



315 



crushed between two Puns — As foi" tlieni 
I venture the rascalliest in the Scotch Re- 
gion — I hope Brown does not put them 
punctually in his journal — If he does I 
must sit on the cutty-stool all next winter. 
We went to Kirk AUoway — ' a Prophet 
is no Prophet in his own Country ' — We 
went to the Cottage and took some Whisky. 
I wrote a sonnet for the mere sake of 
writing some lines under the roof — they 
are so bad I cannot transcribe them — The 
Man at the Cottage was a great Bore with 
his Anecdotes — I hate the rascal — his 
Life consists in f uz, fuzzy, fuzziest — He 
drinks glasses five for the Quarter and 
twelve for the hour — he is a mahogany- 
faced old Jackass who knew Burns — He 
ought to have been kicked for haviug 
spoken to him. He calls himself " a curi- 
ous old Bitch " — but he is a flat old dog — 
I should like to employ Caliph Vathek to 
kick him. O the flummery of a birthplace! 
Cant! Cant! Cant! It is enough to give a 
spirit the guts-ache — Many a true word, 
they say, is spoken in jest — tliis may be 
because his gab hindered my sublimity: the 
flat dog made me write a flat sonnet. My 
dear Reynolds — I cannot write about 
scenery and visitings — Fancy is indeed 
less than a present palpable realitj', but it 
is greater than remembrance — you would 
lift your eyes from Homer only to see close 
before you the real Isle of Tenedos — you 
would rather read Homer afterwards than 
remember yourself — One song of Burns's 
is of more worth to you than all I could 
think for a whole year in his native country. 
His Misery is a dead weight upon the nim- 
bleness of one's quill — I tried to forget it 
— to drink Toddy without any Care — to 
write a merry sonnet — it won't do — he 
talked with Bitches — he drank with Black- 
guards, he was miserable — We can see 
horribly clear, in the works of such a Man 
his whole life, as if we were God's spies. — 
What were his addresses to Jean in the 
latter part of his life ? I should not 
speak so to you — yet why not — you are 



not in the same case, you are in the right 
path, and you shall not be deceived. I 
have spoken to you against Marriage, but 
it was general — the Prospect in those 
matters has been to me so blank, that I 
have not been unwilling to die — I would 
not now, for I have inducements to Life — 
I must see my little Nephews in America, 
and I must see you marry your lovely Wife. 
My sensations are sometimes deadened for 
weeks together — but believe me I have 
more than once yearned for the time of 
your happiness to come, as much as I could 
for myself after the lips of Juliet. — From 
the tenor of my occasional rodomontade in 
chit-chat, you might have been deceived 
concerning me in these points — upon my 
soul, I have been getting more and more 
close to you, every day, ever since I knew 
you, and now one of the first pleasures I 
look to is your happy Marriage — the more, 
since I have felt the pleasure of loving a 
sister in Law. I did not think it possible 
to become so much attached in so short a 
time — Things like these, and they are 
real, have made me resolve to have a care 
of my health — you must be as careful. 

The rain has stopped us to-day at the 
end of a dozen Miles, yet we hope to see 
Loch Lomond tlie day after to-morrow; — 
I will piddle out my information, as Rice 
says, next Winter, at any time when a sub- 
stitute is wanted for Vingt-un. We bear 
the fatigue very well — 20 Miles a day in 
general — A Cloud came over us in getting 
up Skiddaw — I hope to be more lucky in 
Ben Lomond — and more lucky still in Ben 
Nevis. What I think j'ou would enjoy is 
poking about Ruins — sometimes Abbey, 
sometimes Castle. The short stay we made 
in Ireland has left few remembrances — 
but an old woman in a dog-kennel Sedan 
with a pipe in her Mouth, is what I can 
never forget — I wish I may be able to 
give you an idea of her — Remember me 
to your Mother and Sisters, and tell your 
Mother how I hope she will pardon me for 
having a scrap of paper ^^ pasted in the 



3i6 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



Book sent to her. I was driven on all sides 
and had not time to call on Taylor — So 
Bailey is coming to Cumberland — well, if 
you '11 let me know where at Inverness, I 
will call on my return and pass a little 
time with him — I am glad 't is not Scot- 
land — Tell my friends I do all I can for 
them, that is, drink their healths in Toddy. 
Perhaps 1 may have some lines by and by 
to send you fresh, on your own Letter — 
Tom has a few to show you. 

Your affectionate friend 

John Keats. 

62. to thomas keats 

Cairn-something [Cairndow], July 17, [1818]. 

My dear Tom — Here 's Brown going on 
so that I cannot bring to mind how the two 
last days have vanished — for example he 



says The Lady of the Lake went to Rock 
herself to sleep on Arthur's seat and the 
Lord of the Isles coming to Press a Piece. 
... I told you last how we were stared at 
in Glasgow — we are not out of the Crowd 
yet. Steam Boats on Loch Lomond and 
Barouches on its sides take a little from 
the Pleasure of such romantic chaps as 
Brown and I. The Banks of the Clyde are 
extremely beautiful — the north end of 
Loch Lomond grand in excess — the en- 
trance at the lower end to the narrow part 
from a little distance is precious good — 
the Evening was beautiful nothing could 
surpass our fortune in the weather — yet 
was I worldly enough to wish for a fleet of 
chivalry Barges with Trumpets and Ban- 
ners just to die away before me into that 
blue place among the mountains — I must 
give you an outline as well as I can. 









f^-i^^foL flu 




No' B — the Water was a fine Blue sil- 
vered and the Mountains a dark purple, the 
Sun setting aslant behind them — mean- 
time the head of ben Lomond was covered 
with a rich Pink Cloud. We did not as- 
cend Ben Lomond — the price being very 
high and a half a day of rest being quite 
acceptable. We were up at 4 this morning 
and have walked to breakfast 15 Miles 
through two Tremendous Glens — at the 
end of the first there is a place called rest 
and be thankful which we took for an Inn 
— it was nothing but a Stone and so we 
were cheated into 5 more Miles to Break- 
fast — I have just been bathing in Loch 
Fyne a salt water Lake opposite the Win- 
dows, — quite pat and fresh but for the 



cursed Gad flies — damn 'em they have 
been at me ever since I left the Swan and 
two necks.*" 

[Keats here objurgates The Gadfly in the 
lines printed on p. 245.] 

[Inverary, July 18.] 

Last Evening we came around the End 
of Loch Fyne to Inverary — the Duke of 
Argyle's Castle is very modern magnificent 
and more so from the place it is in — the 
woods seem old enough to remember two 
or three changes in the Crags about them 

— the Lake was beautiful and there was a 
Band at a distance by the Castle. I must 
say I enjoyed two or three common tunes 

— but nothing could stifle the horrors of a 



TO THOMAS KEATS 



317 



solo oil the Bag-pipe — I thought the Beast 
would never have done. — Yet was I 
doomed to hear auothei-. — On entering In- 
verary we saw a Play Bill. Brown was 
knocked up from new shoes — so I went 
to the Barn alone where I saw the Stranger 
accompanied by a Bag-pipe. There they 
went on about interesting creaters and 
human nater till the Curtain fell and then 
came the Bag-pipe. When Mrs. Haller 
fainted down went the Curtain and out 
came the Bag-pipe — at the heartrending, 
shoemending reconciliation the Piper blew 
amain. I never read or saw this play be- 
fore ; not the Bag-pipe nor the wretched 
players themselves were little in comparison 
with it — thank heaven it has been scoffed 
at lately almost to a fashion — 

[The sonnet printed above, p. 2i6, is here 
copied.] 

I think we are the luckiest fellows in 
Christendom — Brown could not proceed 
this morning on account of his feet and lo 
there is thunder and rain. 

[Kilmelford,] July 20th. 
For these two days past we have been 
so badly accommodated more particularly 
in coarse food that I have not been at all 
in cue to write. Last night poor Brown 
with his feet blistered and scarcely able 
to walk, after a trudge of 20 Miles down 
the Side of Loch Awe had no supper but 
Eggs and Oat Cake — we have lost the 
sight of white bread entirely — Now we 
have eaten nothing but Eggs all day — 
about 10 a piece and they had become sick- 
ening — To-day we have fared rather bet- 
ter — but no oat Cake wanting — we had a 
small Chicken and even a good bottle of 
Port but all together the fare is too coarse 
— I feel it a little. — Another week will 
break us in. I forgot to tell you that when 
we came through Glenside it was early in 
the morning and we were pleased with the 
noise of Shepherds, Sheep and dogs in the 
misty heights close above us — we saw none 
of them for some time, till two came in 



sight creeping among the Crags like Em- 
mets, yet their voices came quite plainly to 
us — The approach to Loch Awe was very 
solemn towards nightfall — the first glance 
was a streak of water deep in the Bases of 
large black Mountains. — We had come 
along a complete mountain road, where if 
one listened there was not a sound but that 
of Mountain Streams. We walked 20 
Miles by the side of Loch Awe — every ten 
steps creating a new and beautiful picture 

— sometimes through little wood — there 
are two islands on the Lake each with a 
beautiful ruin — one of them rich in ivy. — 
We are detained this morning by the rain. 
I will tell you exactly where we are. We 
are between Loch Craignish and the sea just 
opposite Long [Luing] Island. Yesterday 
our walk was of this description — the near 
Hills were not very lofty but many of them 
steep, beautifully wooded — the distant 
Mountains in the Hebrides very grand, the 
Saltwater Lakes coming up between Crags 
and Islands full tide and scarcely ruffled 

— sometimes appearing as one large Lake, 
sometimes as three distinct ones in differ- 
ent directions. At one point we saw afar 
off a rocky opening into the main sea. — 
We have also seen an Eagle or two. They 
move about without the least motion of 
Wings when in an indolent fit. — I am for 
the first time in a country where a foreign 
Language is spoken — they gabble away 
Gaelic at a vast rate — numbers of them 
speak English. There are not many Kilts 
in Argyleshire — at Fort William they say 
a Man is not admitted into Society without 
one — the Ladies there have a horror at 
the indecency of Breeches. I cannot give 
you a better idea of Highland Life than by 
describing the place we are in. The Inn or 
public is by far the best house in the im- 
mediate neighbourhood. It has a white 
front with tolerable windows — the table 
I am writing on surprises me as being a 
nice flapped Mahogany one. . . . You may 
if you peep see through the floor chinks 
into the ground rooms. The old Grand- 



3i8 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



mother of the house seems intelligent 
though not over clean. N. B. No snuff 
being to be had in the village she made us 
some. The Guid Man is a rough-looking 
hardy stout Man who I think does not 
speak so much English as the Guid wife 
who is very obliging and sensible and more- 
over though stockingless has a pair of old 
Shoes — Last night some Whisky Men sat 
up clattering Gaelic till I am sure one 
o'clock to our great annoyance. There is 
a Gaelic testament on the Drawers in the 
next room. White and blue China ware 
has crept all about here — Yesterday there 
passed a Donkey laden with tin-pots — 
opposite the Window there are hills in a 
Mist — a few Ash trees and a mountain 
stream at a little distance. — They possess 
a few head of Cattle. — If you had gone 
round to the back of the House just now 
— you would have seen more hills in a 
Mist — some dozen wretched black Cot- 
tages scented of peat smoke which finds its 
way by the door or a hole in the roof — a 
girl here and there barefoot. There was 
one little thing driving Cows down a slope 
like a mad thing. There was another 
standing at the cowhouse door rather pretty 
fac'd all up to the ankles in dirt. 

[Oban, July 21.] 
We have walk'd 15 Miles in a soaking 
rain to Oban opposite the Isle of Mull 
which is so near Staffa we had thought to 
pass to it — but the expense is 7 Guineas 
and those rather extorted. — Staffa you 
see is a fashionable place and there- 
fore every one concerned with it either in 
this town or the Island are what you call 
up. 'T is like paying sixpence for an apple 
at the playhouse — this irritated me and 
Brown was not best pleased — we have 
therefore resolved to set northward for 
fort William to-morrow morning. I fed 
upon a bit of white Bread to-day like a 
Sparrow — it was very fine — I cannot 
manage the cursed Oat Cake. Remember 
me to all and let me hear a good account of 



you at Inverness — I am sorry Georgy had 
not those lines. Good-bye. 

Your affectionate Brother John . 

63. TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 

Inverary, July 18 [1818]. 
My dear Bailey — The only day I 
have had a chance of seeing you when you 
were last in London I took every advan- 
tage of — some devil led you out of the 
way — Now I have written to Reynolds to 
tell me where you will be in Cumberland 

— so that I cannot miss you. And when I 
see you, the first thing I shall do will be 
to read that about Milton and Ceres, and 
Proserpine — for though I am not going 
after you to John o' Grot's, it will be but 
poetical to say so. And here, Bailey, I 
will say a few words written in a sane and 
seber mind^ a very scarce thing with me, 
for they may, hereafter, save j'ou a great 
deal of trouble abovit me, which you do not 
deserve, and for which I ought to be bas- 
tinadoed. I carry all matters to an extreme 

— so that when I have any little vexation, 
it grows in five minutes into a theme for 
Sophocles. Then, and in that temper, if I 
write to any friend, I have so little self- 
possession that I give him matter for griev- 
ing at the very time perhaps when I am 
laughing at a Pun. Your last letter made 
me blush for the pain I had given you — 
I know my own disposition so well that I 
am certain of writing many times hereafter 
in the same strain to you — now, you know 
how far to believe in them. You must al- 
low for Imagination. I know I shall not 
be able to help it. 

I am sorry you are grieved at my not 
continuing my visits to Little Britain — 
Yet I think I have as far as a Man can do 
who lias Books to read and subjects to 
think upon — for that reason I have been 
nowhere else except to Wentworth Place 
so nigh at hand — moreover I have been 
too often in a state of health that made it 
prudent not to hazard the night air. Yet, 



TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 



319 



further, I will confess to you that I cannot 
enjoy Society small or numerous — I am 
certain that our fair friends are glad I 
should come for the mere sake of my com- 
ing ; but I am certain I bring with me a 
vexation they are better without — If I can 
possibly at any time feel my temper coming 
upon me I refrain even from a promised 
visit. I am certain I have not a right feel- 
ing towards women — at this moment, I 
am striving to be just to them, but I cannot 

— Is it because they fall so far beneath 
my boyish Imagination ? When I was a 
schoolboy I thought a fair woman a pure 
Goddess ; my mind was a soft nest in which 
some one of them slept, though she knew 
it not. I have no right to expect more 
than their reality — I thought them ethe- 
real above men — I find them perhaps equal 

— great by comparison is very small. In- 
sult may be inflicted in more ways than by 
word or action — One who is tender of 
being insulted does not like to think an 
insult against another. I do not like to 
think insults in a lady's company — I com- 
mit a crime with her which absence would 
not have known. Is it not extraordi- 
nary ? — when among men, I have no evil 
thoughts, no malice, no spleen — I feel free 
to speak or to be silent — I can listen, and 
from every one I can learn — my hands 
are in my pockets, I am free from all 
suspicion and comfortable. When I am 
among women, I have evil thoughts, malice, 
spleen — I cannot speak, or be silent — 
I am full of suspicions and therefore listen 
to nothing — I am in a hurry to be gone. 
You must be charitable and put all this 
perversity to my being disappointed since 
my boyhood. Yet with such feelings I am 
happier alone among crowds of men, by 
myself, or with a friend or two. With all 
this, trust me, I have not the least idea 
that men of different feelings and inclina- 
tions are more short-sighted than myself. 
I never rejoiced more than at my Brother's 
marriage, and shall do so at that of any 
of my friends. I must absolutely get oter 



this — but how ? the only way is to find 
the root of the evil, and so cure it ' with 
backward mutters of dissevering power ' — 
that is a difficult thing ; for an obstinate 
Prejudice can seldom be produced but from 
a gordian complication of feelings, which 
must take time to unravel, and care to keep 
unravelled. I could say a good deal about 
this, but I will leave it, in hopes of better 
and more worthy dispositions — and also 
content that I am wronging no one, for 
after all I do think better of womankind 
than to suppose they care whether Mister 
John Keats five feet high likes them or not. 
You appeared to wish to know my moods 
on this subject — don't think it a bore my 
dear fellow, it shall be my Amen. I should 
not have consented to myself these four 
months tramping in the highlands, but that 
I thought it would give me more experi- 
ence, rub off more prejudice, use to more 
hardship, identify finer scenes, load me 
with grander mountains, and strengthen 
more my reach in Poetry, than would stop- 
ping at home among books, even though 
I should reach Homer. By this time I 
am comparatively a Mountaineer. I have 
been among wilds and mountains too much 
to break out much about their grandeur. 
I have fed upon oat-cake — not long 
enough to be very mnch attached to it. — 
The first mountains I saw, though not so 
large as some I have since seen, weighed 
very solemnly upon me. The effect is 
wearing away — yet I like them mainly. 

[Island of Mull, July 22.] 
We have come this Evening with a guide 
— for without was impossible — into the 
middle of the Isle of Mull, pursuing our 
cheap journey to lona, and perhaps Staffa. 
We would not follow the common and 
fashionable mode, from the great Imposi- 
tion of Expense. We have come over 
heath and rock, and river and bog, to what 
in England would be called a horrid place. 
Yet it belongs to a Shepherd pretty well 
off perhaps. The family speak not a word 



320 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



but Gaelic, and we have not yet seen their 
faces for the smoke, which, after visiting 
every cranny (not excepting my eyes very 
much incommoded for writing), finds its 
way out at the door. I am more comfort- 
able than I could have imagined in such a 
place, and so is Brown. The people are 
all very kind — We lost our way a little 
yesterday; and inquiring at a Cottage, a 
young woman without a word threw on 
her cloak and walked a mile in a mizzling 
rain and splashy way to put us right again. 
I could not have had a greater pleasure 
in these parts than your mention of my 
sister. She is very much prisoned from 
me. I am afraid it will be some time be- 
fore I can take her to many places I wish. 
I trust we shall see you ere long in Cum- 
berland — At least I hope I shall, before 
my visit to America, more than once. I in- 
tend to pass a whole year there, if I live to 
the completion of the three next. My sis- 
ter's welfare, and the hopes of such a stay 
in America, will make me observe your 
advice. I shall be prudent and more care- 
ful of my health than I have been. I hope 
you will be about paying your first visit to 
Town after settling when we come into 
Cumberland — Cumberland however will 
be no distance to me after my present 
journey. I shall spin to you in a Minute. 
I begin to get rather a contempt of dis- 
tances. I hope you will have a nice con- 
venient room for a library. Now you are 
so well in health, do keep it up by never 
missing your dinner, by not reading hard, 
and by taking proper exercise. You '11 
have a horse, I suppose, so you must make 
a point of sweating him. You say I must 
study Dante — well, the only Books I have 
with me are those 3 little volumes.^^ I read 
that fine passage you mention a few days 
ago. Your letter followed me from Hamp- 
stead to Port-Patrick, and thence to Glas- 
gow. You must think me by this time a 
very pretty fellow. One of the pleasantest 
bouts we have had was our walk to Burns's 
Cottage, over the Doon, and past Kirk 



AUoway. I had determined to write a 
Sonnet in the Cottage. I did — but lawk! 
it was so wretched I destroyed it — how- 
ever in a few days afterwards I wrote some 
lines cousin-german to the circumstance, 
which I will transcribe, or rather cross- 
scribe in the front of this. [Here follow 
the lines printed on pp. 246, 247.] 

Reynolds's illness has made him a new 
man — he will be stronger than ever — be- 
fore I left London he was really getting a 
fat face. Brown keeps on writing volumes 
of adventures to Dilke. When we get in 
of an evening and I have perhaps taken my 
rest on a couple of chairs, he affronts my 
indolence and Luxury by pulling out of his 
knapsack 1st his paper — 2ndly his pens 
and last his ink. Now I would not care if 
he would change a little. I say now why 
not Bailej^, take out his pens first some- 
times — But I might as well tell a hen to 
hold up her head before she drinks instead 
of afterwards. 

Your affectionate Friend, John Keats. 

64. TO THOMAS KEATS 

Dun an cullen, [Derrynaculan ?] 
Island of Mull [July 23, 1818]. 
My dear Tom — Just after my last had 
gone to the Post, in came one of the Men 
with whom we endeavoured to agree about 
going to Staffa — he said what a pity it was 
we should turn aside and not see the curi- 
osities. So we had a little talk, and finally 
agreed that he should be our guide across 
the Isle of Mull. We set out, crossed two 
ferries — one to the Isle of Kerrara, of 
little distance ; the other from Kerrara to 
Mull 9 Miles across — we did it in forty 
minutes with a fine Breeze. The road 
through the Island, or rather the track, is 
the most dreary you can think of — be- 
tween dreary Mountains, over bog and rock 
and river with our Breeches tucked up and 
our Stockings in hand. About 8 o'Clock 
we arrived at a shepherd's Hut, into which 
we could scarcely get for the Smoke through 



TO THOMAS KEATS 



321 



a door lower than my Shoulders. We found 
our way into a little compartment with the 
rafters and turf-thatch blackened with 
smoke, the earth floor full of Hills and 
Dales. We had some white Bread with us, 
made a good supper, and slept in our Clothes 
in some Blankets; our Guide snored on an- 
other little bed about an Arm's length off. 
This morning we came about sax Miles to 
Breakfast, by rather a better path, and we 
are now in by comparison a Mansion. Our 
Guide is I think a very obliging fellow — 
in the way this morning he sang us two 
Gaelic songs — one made by a Mrs. Brown 
on her husband's being drowned, the other 
a jacobin one on Charles Stuart. For some 
days Brown has been enquiring out his 
Genealogy here — he thinks his Grand- 
father came from long Island. He got a 
parcel of people about him at a Cottage 
door last Evening, chatted with ane who 
had been a Miss Brown, and who I think 
from a likeness, must have been a Relation 
— he jawed with the old Woman — flattered 
a young one — kissed a child who was afraid 
of his Spectacles and finally drank a pint of 
Milk. They handle his Spectacles as we 
do a sensitive leaf. 

[Oban,] July 26th. 
Well — we had a most wretched walk of 
37 Miles across the Island of Mull and 
then we crossed to lona or Icolmkill — 
from Icolmkill we took a boat at a bargain 
to take us to Stafifa and land us at the head 
of Loch Nakgal, [Loch na Keal] whence 
we should only have to walk half the dis- 
tance to Oban again and on a better road. 
All this is well passed and done, \vith this 
singular piece of Luck, that there was an 
interruption in the bad Weather just as we 
saw Staffa at which it is impossible to land 
but in a tolerable Calm sea. But I will first 
mention Icolmkill — I know not whether 
you have heard much about this Island ; 
I never did before I came nigh it. It is 
rich in the most interesting Antiquities. 
Who would expect to find the ruins of a 
fine Cathedral Church, of Cloisters Col- 



leges Monasteries and Nunneries in so re- 
mote an Island ? The beginning of these 
things was in the sixth Century, under the 
superstition of a would - be - Bishop - saint, 
who landed from Ireland, and chose the 
spot from its Beauty — for at that time 
the now treeless place was covered with 
magnificent Woods. Columba in the Gaelic 
is Colm, signifying Dove — Kill signifies 
church, and I is as good as Island — so 
I-colm-kill means the Island of Saint Co- 
lumba's Church. Now this Saint Columba 
became the Dominic of the barbarian Chris- 
tians of the north and was famed also far 
south — but more especially was reverenced 
by the Scots the Picts the Norwegians the 
Irish. In a course of years perhaps the 
Island was considered the most holy ground 
of the north, and the old Kings of the 
aforementioned nations chose it for their 
burial-place. We were shown a spot in the 
Churchyard where they say 61 Kings are 
buried 48 Scotch from Fergus II. to Mac- 
beth 8 Irish 4 Norwegians and 1 French — 
they lie in rows compact. Then we were 
shown other matters of later date, but still 
very ancient — many tombs of Highland 
Chieftains — their effigies in complete ar- 
mour, face upwards, black and moss-cov- 
ered — Abbots and Bishops of the island 
always of one of the chief Clans. There 
were plenty Macleans and Macdonnels; 
among these latter, the famous Macdonel 
Lord of the Isles. There have been 300 
Crosses in the Island but the Presbyterians 
destroyed all but two, one of which is a 
very fine one, and completely covered with 
a shaggy coarse Moss. The old School- 
master, an ignorant little man but reckoned 
very clever, showed us these things. He 
is a Maclean, and as much above 4 foot as 
he is under 4 foot three inches. He stops 
at one glass of whisky unless you press an- 
other and at the second unless you press a 
third — 

I am puzzled how to give you an Idea of 
Staffa. It can only be represented by a 
first-rate drawing. One may compare the 



322 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



surface of the Island to a roof — this roof 
is supported by grand pillars of basalt 
standing together as thick as honeycombs. 
The finest thing is Fingal's Cave — it is 
entirely a hollowing out of Basalt Pillars. 
Suppose now the Giants who rebelled 
against Jove had taken a whole Mass of 
black Columns and bound them together 
like bunches of matches — and then with 
immense axes had made a cavern in the 
body of these columns — Of course the 
roof and floor must be composed of the 
broken ends of the Columns — such is Fin- 
gal's Cave, except that the Sea has done 
the work of excavations, and is continually 
dashing there — so that we walk along the 
sides of the cave on the pillars which are 
left as if for convenient stairs. The roof 
is arched somewhat gothic-wise, and the 
length of some of the entire side-pillars is 
fifty feet. About the island you might seat 
an army of Men each on a pillar. The 
length of the Cave is 120 feet, and from 
its extremity the view into the sea, through 
the large Arch at the entrance — the colour 
of the columns is a sort of black with a 
lurking gloom of purple therein. For so- 
lemnity and grandeur it far surpasses the 
finest Cathedral. At the extremity of the 
Cave there is a small perforation into an- 
other cave, at which the waters meeting 
and buffeting each other there is sometimes 
produced a report as of a cannon heard as 
far as lona, which must be 12 Miles. As 
we approached in the boat, there was such 
a fine swell of the sea that the pillars ap- 
peared rising immediately out of the crystal. 
But it is impossible to describe it. [The 
lines ' At Fingal's Cave,' p. 122, are here 
given in a variant.] 

I am sorry I am so indolent as to write 
such stuff as this. It can't be helped. The 
western coast of Scotland is a most strange 
place — it is composed of rocks. Mountains, 
mountainous and rocky Islands intersected 
by lochs — you can go but a short distance 
anywhere from salt water in the highlands. 

I have a slight sore throat and think it 



best to stay a day or two at Oban — then 
we shall proceed to Fort William and 
Inverness, where I am anxious to be on ac- 
count of a Letter from you. Brown in his 
Letters puts down every little circum- 
stance. I should like to do the same, but 
I confess myself too indolent, and besides 
next winter everything will come up in 
prime order as we verge on such and such 
things. 

Have you heard in any way of George ? 
I should think by this time he must have 
landed. I in my carelessness never thought 
of knowing where a letter would find him 
on the other side — I think Baltimore, but 
I am afraid of directing it to the wrong 
place. I shall begin some chequer work 
for him directly, and it will be ripe for the 
post by the time I hear from you next after 
this. I assure you I often long for a seat 
and a Cup o' tea at Well Walk, especially 
now that mountains, castles, and Lakes are 
becoming common to me. Yet I would 
rather summer it out, for on the whole I 
am happier than when I have time to be 
glum — perhaps it may cure me. Immedi- 
ately on my return I shall begin studying 
hard, with a peep at the theatre now and 
then — and depend upon it I shall be very 
luxurious. With respect to Women I think 
I shall be able to conquer my passions 
hereafter better than I have yet done. You 
will help me to talk of George next winter, 
and we will go now and then to see Fanny. 
Let me hear a good account of your health 
and comfort, telling me truly how you do 
alone. Remember me to all including Mr. 
and Mrs. Bentley. 

Your most affectionate Brother 

John. 

65. TO THE SAME 

Letter Findlay, August 3 [1818]. 

Ah mio Ben. 

My dear Tom — We have made but 

poor progress lately, chiefly from bad 

weather, for my throat is in a fair way of 

getting quite well, so I have had nothing 



TO THOMAS KEATS 



323 



of consequence to tell you till yesterday 
when we went np Ben Nevis, the highest 
Mountain in Great Britain. On that ac- 
count I will never ascend another in this 
empire — Skiddaw is nothing to it either in 
height or in difficulty. It is above 4300 
feet from the Sea level, and Fortwilliam 
stands at the head of a Salt water Lake, 
consequently we took it completely from 
that level. I am heartily glad it is done — 
it is almost like a fly crawling up a wain- 
seoat. Imagine the task of mounting ten 
Saint Pauls without the convenience of 
Staircases. We set out about five in the 
morning with a Guide in the Tartan and 
Cap, and soon arrived at the foot of the 
first ascent which we immediately began 
upon. After much fag and tug and a rest 
and a glass of whisky apiece we gained the 
top of the first rise and saw then a tre- 
mendous chap above us, which the guide 
said was still far from the top. After the 
first Rise our way lay along a heath valley 
in which there was a Loch — after about a 
Mile in this Valley we began upon the next 
ascent, more formidable by far than the 
last, and kept mounting with short inter- 
vals of rest until we got above all vegeta- 
tion, among nothing but loose Stones which 
lasted us to the very top. The Guide said 
we had three Miles of a stony ascent — we 
gained the first tolerable level after the 
valley to the height of what in the Valley 
we had thought the top and saw still above 
us another huge crag which still the Guide 
said was not the top — to that we made 
with an obstinate fag, and having gained it 
there came on a Mist, so that from that 
part to the very top we walked in a Mist. 
The whole immense head of the Mountain 
is composed of large loose stones — thou- 
sands of acres. Before we had got half- 
way up we passed large patches of snow 
and near the top there is a chasm some 
hundred feet deep completely glutted with 
it. — Talking of chasms they are the finest 
wonder of the whole — they appear great 
rents in the very heart of the mountain 



though they are not, being at the side of it, 
but other huge crags arising round it give 
the appearance to Nevis of a shattered 
heart or Core in itself. These Chasms are 
1500 feet in depth and are the most tre- 
mendous places I have ever seen — they 
turn one giddy if you choose to give way 
to it. We tumbled in large stones and set 
the echoes at work in fine style. Some- 
times these chasms are tolerably clear, 
sometimes there is a misty cloud which 
seems to steam up and sometimes they are 
entirely smothered with clouds. 

After a little time the Mist cleared away 
but still there were large Clouds about at- 
tracted by old Ben to a certain distance so 
as to form as it appeared large dome cur- 
tains which kept sailing about, opening and 
shutting at intervals here and there and 
everywhere: so that although we did not 
see one vast wide extent of prospect all 
round we saw something perhaps finer — 
these cloud veils opening with a dissolving 
motion and showing us the mountainous 
region beneath as through a loophole — 
these cloudy loopholes ever varying and 
discovering fresh prospect east, west, north 
and south. Then it was misty again, and 
again it was fair — then pufE came a cold 
breeze of wind and bared a craggy chap we 
had not yet seen though in close neigh- 
bourhood. Every now and then we had 
overhead blue Sky clear and the sun pretty 
warm. I do not know whether I can give 
you an Idea of the prospect from a large 
Mountain top. You are on a stony plain 
which of course makes you forget you are 
on any but low ground — the horizon or 
rather edges of this plain being above 4000 
feet above the Sea hide all the Country 
immediately beneath you, so that the next 
object you see all round next to the edges 
of the flat top are the Summits of Moun- 
tains of some distance off. As you move 
about on all sides you see more or less of 
the near neighbour country according as 
the Mountain you stand upon is in different 
parts steep or rounded — but the most new 



324 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



thing of all is the sudden leap of the eye 
from the extremity of what appears a plain 
into so vast a distance. On one part of the 
top there is a handsome pile of Stones done 
pointedly by some soldiers of artillery; I 
clim[b]ed on to them and so got a little 
higher than old Ben himself. It was not 
so cold as I expected — yet cold enough for 
a glass of Whisky now and then. There 
is not a more fickle thing than the top of 
a Mountain — what would a Lady give to 
change her head-dress as often and with as 
little trouble! — There are a good many 
red deer upon Ben Nevis — we did not see 
one — the dog we had with us kept a very 
sharp look out and really languished for 
a bit of a worry. I have said nothing yet 
of our getting on among the loose stones 
large and small sometimes on two, some- 
times on three, sometimes four legs — 
sometimes two and stick, 'sometimes three 
and stick, then four again, then two, then 
a jump, so that we kept on ringing changes 
on foot, hand, stick, jump, boggle, stumble, 
foot, hand, foot (very gingerly), stick again, 
and then again a game at all fours. After 
all there was one Mrs. Cameron of 50 years 
of age and the fattest woman in all Inver- 
ness-shire who got up this Mountain some 
few years ago — true she had her servants 
— but then she had her self. She ought 
to have hired Sisyphus, — ' Up the high 
bill he heaves a huge round — Mrs. Came- 
ron.' 'T is said a little conversation took 
place between the mountain and the Lady. 
After taking a glass of Whisky as she was 
tolerably seated at ease she thus began — 

[Here follow the nonsense verses and inter- 
calary sentences, given on pp. 247, 248.] 

Over leaf you will find a Sonnet I wrote 
on the top of Ben Nevis, [see p. 123]. We 
have just entered Inverness. I have three 
Letters from you and one from Fanny — 
and one from Dilke. I would set about 
crossing this all over for you but I will first 
write to Fanny and Mrs. Wylie. Then I 
will begin another to you and not before 
because I think it better you should have 



this as soon as possible. My Sore throat is 
not quite well and I intend stopping here a 
few days. 

Good-bye till to morrow. 

Your most affectionate Brother 

John . 

66. TO MRS. WYLIE 

Inverness, August 6 [1818]. 

My dear Madam — It was a great regret 
to me that I should leave all my friends, 
just at the moment when I might have 
helped to soften away the time for them. 
I wanted not to leave my brother Tom, but 
more especially, believe me, I should like 
to have remained near you, were it but for 
an atom of consolation after parting with 
so dear a daughter. My brother George 
has ever been more than a brother to me ; 
he has been my greatest friend, and I can 
never forget the sacrifice you have made 
for his happiness. As I walk along the 
Mountains here I am full of these things, 
and lay in wait, as it were, for the pleasure 
of seeing you immediately on my return to 
town. I wish, above all things, to say a 
word of Comfort to you, but I know not 
how. It is impossible to prove that black 
is white; it is impossible to make out that 
sorrow is joy, or joy is sorrow. 

Tom tells me that you called on Mr. 
Haslam, with a newspaper giving an ac- 
count of a gentleman in a Fur cap falling 
over a precipice in Kirkcudbrightshire. If 
it was me, I did it in a dream, or in some 
magic interval between the first and second 
cup of tea; which is nothing extraordinary 
when we hear that Mahomet, in getting out 
of Bed, upset a jug of water, and, whilst it 
was falling, took a fortnight's trip, as it 
seemed, to Heaven; yet was back in time 
to save one drop of water being spilt. As 
for Fur caps, I do not remember one beside 
my own, except at Carlisle : this was a very 
good Fur cap I met in High Street, and I 
daresay was the unfortunate one. I daresay 
that the fates, seeing but two Fur caps in 



TO FANNY KEATS 



325 



the north, thought it too extraordinary, and 
so threw the dies which of them should be 
drowned. The lot fell upon Jones: I dare- 
say his name was Jones. All 1 hope is that 
the gaunt Ladies said not a word about 
hanging; if they did I shall repent that I 
was not half-drowned in Kirkcudbright. 
Stop! let me see! — being half-drowned 
by falling from a precipice, is a very ro- 
mantic affair: why should I not take it to 
myself ? How glorious to be introduced 
in a drawing-room to a Lady who reads 
Novels, with ' Mr. So-and-so — Miss So- 
and-so ; Miss So-and-so, this is Mr. So-and- 
so, who fell off a precipice and was half- 
drowned.' Now I refer to you, whether I 
should lose so fine an opportunity of mak- 
ing my fortune. No romance lady could 
resist me — none. Being run under a 
Waggon — sidelamed in a playhouse, Apo- 
plectic through Brandy — and a thousand 
other tolerably decent things for badness, 
would be nothing, but being tumbled over 
a precipice into the sea — oh ! it would 
make my fortune — especially if you could 
contrive to hint, from this bulletin's author- 
ity, that I was not upset on my own account, 
but that I dashed into the waves after Jessy 
of Duuiblane, and pulled her out by the 
hair. But that, alas ! she was dead, or she 
would have made me happy with her hand 
— however in this you may use your own 
discretion. But I must leave joking, and 
seriously aver, that I have been very ro- 
mantic indeed among these Mountains and 
Lakes. I have got wet through, day after 
day — eaten oat-cake, and drank Whisky — 
walked up to my knees in Bog — got a sore 
throat — gone to see Icolmkill and Staffa; 
met with wholesome food just here and 
there as it happened — went up Ben Nevis, 
and — N. B., came down again. Some- 
times when I am rather tired I lean rather 
languishingly on a rock, and long for some 
famous Beauty to get down from her Pal- 
frey in passing, approach me, with — her 
saddle-bags, and give me — a dozen or two 
capital roastbeef Sandwiches. 



When I come into a large town, you 
know there is no putting one's Knapsack 
into one's fob, so the people stare. We 
have been taken for Spectacle - vendors, 
Razor-sellers, Jewellers, travelling linen- 
drapers, Spies, Excisemen, and many things 
I have no idea of. When I asked for 
letters at Port Patrick, the man asked what 
regiment ? I have had a peep also at little 
Ireland. Tell Henry I have not camped 
quite on the bare Earth yet, but nearly 
as bad, in walking through Mull, for the 
Shepherds' huts you can scarcely breathe 
in, for the Smoke which they seem to en- 
deavour to preserve for smoking on a large 
scale. Besides riding about 400, we have 
walked above 600 Miles, and may there- 
fore reckon ourselves as set out. 

I assure you, my dear Madam, that one 
of the greatest pleasures I shall have on 
my return, will be seeing you, and that I 
shall ever be 

Yours, with the greatest respect and 
sincerity, John Keats. 

67. TO FANNY KEATS 

Hampstead, August 18 [1818]. 
My dear Fanny — I am afraid you will 
think me very negligent in not having 
answered your Letter — I see it is dated 
June 12. I did not arrive at Liverness till 
the 8th of this Month so I am very much 
concerned at your being disappointed so 
long a time. I did not intend to have 
returned to London so soon but have a bad 
sore throat from a cold I caught in the 
island of Mull: therefore I thought it best 
to get home as soon as possible, and went 
on board the Smack from Cromarty. We 
had a nine days' passage and were landed 
at London Bridge yesterday. I shall have 
a good deal to tell you about Scotland — ^. 
I would begin here but I have a confounded 
toothache. Tom has not been getting better 
since I left London and for the last fort- 
night has been worse than ever — he has 
been getting a little better for these two or 



326 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



three days. I shall ask Mr. Abbey to let 
me bring you to Hampstead. If Mr. A. 
should see this Letter tell him that he still 
must if he pleases forward the Post Bill 
to Perth as I have empowered my fellow 
traveller to receive it. I have a few Scotch 
pebbles for you from the Island of Icolm- 
kill — I am afraid they are rather shabby 

— I did not go near the Mountain of Cairn 
Gorm. I do not know the Name of 
George's ship — the Name of the Port he 
has gone to is Philadelphia whence he will 
travel to the Settlement across the Country 

— I will tell you all about this when I see 
you. The Title of my last Book is Endy- 
mion — you shall have one soon. — I would 
not advise you to play on the Flageolet — 
however I will get you one if you please. 
I will speak to Mr. Abbey on what you say 
concerning school. I am sorry for your 
poor Canary. You shall have another 
volume of my first Book. ' My toothache 
keeps on so that I cannot write with any 
pleasure — all I can say now is that your 
Letter is a very nice one without fault and 
that you will hear from or see in a few 
days if his throat will let him, 

Your affectionate Brother John. 

68. TO THE SAME 

Hampstead, Tuesday [August 25, 1818]. 

My dear Fanny — I have just written 
to Mr. Abbey to ask him to let you come 
and see poor Tom who has lately been 
much worse. He is better at present — 
sends his Love to you and wishes much to 
see you — I hope he will shortly — I have 
not been able to come to Walthamstow on 
his account as well as a little Indisposition 
of my own. I have asked Mr. A. to write 
me — if he does not mention anything of it 
to you, I will tell you what reasons he 
has though I do not think he will make any 
objection. Write me what you want with 
a Flageolet and I will get one ready for 
you by the time you come. 

Your affectionate Brother John . 



69. TO JANE REYNOLDS 

Well Walk, September 1st [1818]. 

My dear Jane — Certainly your kind 
note would rather refresh than trouble me, 
and so much the more would your coming 
if as you say, it could be done without 
agitating my Brother too much. Receive 
on your Hearth our deepest thanks for your 
Solicitude concerning us. 

I am glad John is not hurt, but gone safe 
into Devonshire — I shall be in great ex- 
pectation of his Letter — but the promise 
of it in so anxious and friendly a way I 
prize more than a hundred. I shall be in 
town to-day on some business with my 
guardian ' as was ' with scarce a hope of 
being able to call on you. For these two 
last days Tom has been more cheerful : you 
shall hear again soon how he will be. 

Remember us particularly to your Mo- 
ther. 

Your sincere friend John Keats. 

70. TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE 

[Hampstead, September 21, 1818.] 
My dear Dilke — According to the 
Wentworth place Bulletin you have left 
Brighton much improved : therefore now a 
few lines will be more of a pleasure than 
a bore. I have things to say to you, and 
would fain begin upon them in this fourth 
line : but I have a Mind too well regulated 
to proceed upon anything without due pre- 
liminary remarks. — You may perhaps have 
observed that in the simple process of eat- 
ing radishes I never begin at the root but 
constantly dip the little green head in the 
salt — that in the Game of Whist if I have 
an ace I constantly play it first. So how 
can I with any face begin without a disser- 
tation on letter-writing ? Yet when I con- 
sider that a sheet of paper contains room 
only for three pages and a half, how can 
I do justice to such a pregnant subject ? 
However, as you have seen the history of 
the world stamped as it were by a dimin- 



TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 



327 



ishing glass iu the form of a chronological 
Map, so will I ' with retractile claws ' 
draw this into the form of a table — 
whereby it will occupy merely the remain- 
der of this first page — 

Folio — Parsons, Lawyers, Statesmen, 
Physicians out of place — ut — Eus- 
tace — Thornton — out of practice or 
on their travels. 

Foolscap — 1. Superfine — Rich or no- 
ble poets — ut Byron. 2. common ut 
egomet. 

Quarto — Projectors, Patentees, Presi- 
dents, Potato growers. 

Bath — Boarding schools, and suburbans 
iu general. 

Gilt edge — Dandies iu general, male, 
female, and literary. 

Octavo or tears — All who make use of 
a lascivious seal. 

Duodec. — May be found for the most 
part on Milliners' and Dressmakers' 
Parlour tables. 

Strip — At the Playhouse-doors, or any- 
where. 

Slip — Being but a variation. 

Snip — So called from its size being dis- 
guised by a twist. 

I suppose you will have heard that Haz- 
litt has on foot a prosecution against Black- 
wood. I dined with him a few days since 
at Hessey's — there was not a word said 
about it, though I understand be is exces- 
sively vexed. Reynolds, by what I hear, 
is almost over-happy, and Rice is in town. 
I have not seen him, nor shall I for some 
time, as my throat has become worse after 
getting well, and I am determined to stop 
at home till I am quite well. I was going 
to Town to-morrow with Mrs. D. but I 
thought it best to ask her excuse this morn- 
ing. I wish I could say Tom was any 
better. His identity presses upon me so 
all day that I am obliged to go out — and 
although I intended to have given some 
time to study alone, I am obliged to write 



and plunge into abstract images to ease 
myself of his countenance, his voice, and 
feebleness — so that I live now in a con- 
tiimal fever. It must be poisonous to life, 
although I feel well. Imagine ' the hate- 
ful siege of contraries ' — if I think of 
fame, of poetry, it seems a crime to me, 
and yet I must do so or suffer. I am sorry 
to give you pain — I am almost resolved 
to burn this — but I really have not self- 
possession and magnanimity enough to 
manage the thing otherwise — after all it 
may be a nervousness proceeding from the 
Mercury. 

Bailey I hear is gaining his spirits, and 
he will yet be what I once thought impossi- 
ble, a cheerful Man — I think he is not 
quite so much spoken of in Little Britain. 
I forgot to ask Mrs. Dilke if she had any- 
thing she wanted to say immediately to you. 
This morning look'd so unpromising that I 
did not think she woiUd have gone — but I 
find she has, on sending for some volumes 
of Gibbon. I was in a little funk yes- 
terday, for I sent in an unseal'd note of 
sham abuse, until I recollected, from what 
I heard Charles say, that the servant could 
neither read nor write — not even to her 
Mother as Charles observed. I have just 
had a Letter from Reynolds — he is going 
on gloriously. The following is a transla- 
tion of a line of Ronsard — 

' Love pour'd her beaxity into my warm veins.' 

You have passed your Romance, and I 
never gave in to it, or else I think this line 
a feast for one of your Lovers. How goes 
it with Brown ? 

Your sincere friend John Keats. 

71. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 

[Hampstead, about September 22, 1818.] 
My dear Reynolds — Believe me I 
have rather rejoiced at your happiness than 
fretted at your silence. Indeed I am 
grieved on your account that I am not at 
the same time happy — But I conjure you 



328 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



to think at Present of nothing but plea- 
sure — ' Gather the rose, etc' — gorge the 
honey of life. I pity you as much that it 
cannot last for ever, as I do myself now 
drinking bitters. Give yourself up to it — 
you cannot help it — and I have a Consola- 
tion in thinking so. I never was in love — 
Yet the voice and shape of a Woman ''^ has 
haunted me these two days — at such a 
time, when the relief, the feverous relief 
of Poetry seems a much less crime — This 
morning Poetry has conquered — I have 
relapsed into those abstractions which are 
my only life — I feel escaped from a new 
strange and threatening sorrow — And I am 
thankful for it — There is an awful warmth 
about my heart like a load of Immortality. 

Poor Tom — that woman — and Poetry 
were ringing changes in my senses — Now 
I am in comparison happy — I am sensible 
this will distress you — you must forgive 
me. Had I known you would have set out 
so soon I could have sent you the * Pot of 
Basil ' for I had copied it out ready. — Here 
is a free translation of a Sonnet of Ron- 
sard [see p. 123], which I think will 
please you — I have the loan of his works 
— they have great Beauties. 

I had not the original by me when I wrote 
it, and did not recollect the purport of the 
last lines. 

I should have seen Rice ere this — but I 
am confined by Sawrey's mandate in the 
house now, and have as yet only gone out 
in fear of the damp night. — You know 
what an undangerous matter it is. I shall 
soon be quite recovered — Your offer I 
shall remember as though it had even now 
taken place in fact — I think it cannot be. 
Tom is not up yet — I cannot say he is 
better. I have not heard from George. 

Your affectionate friend John Keats. 

72. TO FANNY KEATS 

[Hampstead, October 9, 1818.] 
My dear Fanny — Poor Tom is about 
the same as when you saw him last ; per- 



haps weaker — were it not for that I 
should have been over to pay you a visit 
these fine days. I got to the stage half an 
hour before it set out and counted the buns 
and tarts in a Pastry-cook's window and 
was just beginning with the Jellies. There 
was no one in the Coach who had a Mind 
to eat me like Mr. Sham-deaf. I shall be 
punctual in enquiring about next Thurs- 
day— 

Your affectionate Brother John. 

73. TO JAMES AUGUSTUS HESSEY 

[Hampstead, October 9, 1818.] 
My dear Hessey — You are very good 
in sending me the letters from the Chroni- 
cle — and I am very bad in not acknowledg- 
ing such a kindness sooner — pray forgive 
me. It has so chanced that I have had 
that paper every day — I have seen to- 
day's. I cannot but feel indebted to those 
Gentlemen who have taken my part — As 
for the rest, I begin to get a little ac- 
quainted with my own strength and weak- 
ness. — Praise or blame has but a momen- 
tary effect on the man whose love of beauty 
in the abstract makes him a severe critic 
on his own Works. My own domestic 
criticism has given me pain without com- 
parison beyond what Blackwood or the 
Quarterly could possibly inflict — and also 
when I feel I am right, no external praise 
can give me such a glow as my own solitary 
reperception and ratification of what is 
fine. J. S. is perfectly right in regard to 
the slip-shod Endymion.*^ That it is so is no 
fault of mine. No ! — though it may sound 
a little paradoxical. It is as good as I had 
power to make it — by myself — Had I 
b^n nervous about its being a perfect piece, 
and with that view asked advice, and trem- 
bled over every page, it would not have 
been written ; for it is not in my nature to 
fumble — I will write independently. — I 
have written independently without Judg- 
ment. I may write independently, and 
with Judgment, hereafter. The Genius of 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



329 



Poetry must work out its owu salvation in 
a man : It cannot be matured by law and 
precept, but by sensation and watchfulness 
in itself — That which is creative must 
create itself — ^ In Endymion, I leaped head- 
long into the sea, and thereby have become 
better acquainted with the Soundings, the 
quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had 
stayed upon the green shore, and piped a 
silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable 
advice. I Avas never afraid of failure ; for 
I would sooner fail than not be among the 
greatest — But I am nigh getting into a 
rant. So, with remembrances to Taylor 
and Woodhouse etc. I am 

Yours very sincerely John Keats. 

74. TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 

[Hampstead, October 13 or 14, 1818.] 
My dear George — There was a part 
in your Letter which gave me a great deal 
of pain, that where you lament not receiv- 
ing Letters from England. I intended to 
have written immediately on my return 
from Scotland (which was two Months 
earlier than I had intended on account of 
my ovni as well as Tom's health) but then 
I was told by Mrs. W. that you had said 
you would not wish any one to write till 
we had heard from you. This I thought 
odd and now I see that it could not have 
been so ; yet at the time I suffered my un- 
reflecting head to be satisfied, and went on 
in that sort of abstract careless and restless 
Life with which you are well acquainted. 
This sentence sliould it give you any un- 
easiness do not let it last for before I finish 
it will be explained away to your satisfac- 
tion — 

I am grieved to say I am not sorry you 
had not Letters at Philadelphia ; you could 
have had no good news of Tom and I have 
been withheld on his account from begin- 
ning these many days ; I could not bring 
! myself to say the truth, that he is no better 
but much worse — However it must be 



told ; and you must my dear Brother and 
Sister take example from me and bear up 
against any Calamity for my sake as I do 
for yours. Our's are ties which independ- 
ent of their own Sentiment are sent us by 
providence to prevent the deleterious effects 
of one great solitary grief. I have Fanny 
and I have you — three people whose Hap- 
piness to me is sacred — and it does annul 
that selfish sorrow which I should other- 
wise fall into, living as I do with poor Tom 
who looks upon me as his only comfort — 
the tears will come into your Eyes — let 
them — and embrace each other — thank 
heaven for what happiness you have, and 
after thinking a moment or two that you 
suffer in common with all Mankind hold it 
not a sin to regain your cheerfulness — 

I will relieve you of one uneasiness of 
overleaf : I returned I said on account 
of my health — I am now well from a bad 
sore throat which came of bog trotting in 
the Island of Mull — of which you shall 
hear by the copies I shall make from my 
Scotch Letters — 

Your content in each other is a delight to 
me which I cannot express — the Moon is 
now shining full and brilliant — she is the 
same to me in Matter, what you are to me 
in Spirit. If you were here my dear Sister 
I could not pronounce the words which I 
can write to you from a distance : I have a 
tenderness for you, and an admiration which 
I feel to be as great and more chaste than 
I can have for any woman in the world. 
You will mention Fanny — her character is 
not formed, her identity does not press 
upon me as yours does. I hope from the 
bottom of my heart that I may one day 
feel as much for her as I do for you — I 
know not how it is, but I have never made 
any acquaintance of my own — nearly all 
through your medium my dear Brother — 
through you I know not only a Sister but 
a glorious human being. And now I am 
talking of those to whom you have made 
me known I cannot forbear mentioning 



33° 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



Haslam a& a most kind and obliging and 
constant friend. His behaviour to Tom 
during my absence and since my return has 
endeared him to me for ever — besides 
his anxiety about you. To-morrow I shall 
call on your Mother and exchange informa- 
tion with her. On Tom's account I have 
not been able to pass so much time with 
her as I would otherwise have done — I 
have seen her but twice — once I dined 
with her and Charles — She was well, in 
good spirits, and I kept her laughing at my 
bad jokes. We went to tea at Mrs. Mil- 
lar's, and in going were particularly struck 
with the light and shade through the Gate 
way at the Horse Guards. I intend to 
write you such Volumes that it will be 
impossible for me to keep any order or 
method in what I write : that will come 
first wliich is uppermost in my Mind, not 
that which is uppermost in my heart — be- 
sides I should wish to give you a picture of 
our Lives here whenever by a touch I can 
do it; even as you must see by the last sen- 
tence our walk past Whitehall all in good 
health and spirits — this I am certain of, 
because I felt so much pleasure from the 
simple idea of your playing a game at 
Cricket. At Mrs. Millar's 1 saw Henry 
quite well — there was Miss Keasle — and 
the good-natured Miss Waldegrave — Mrs. 
Millar began a long story and you know it 
is her Daughter's way to help her on as 
though her tongue were ill of the gout. 
Mrs. M. certainly tells a story as though 
she had been taught her Alphabet in 
Crutched Friars. Dilke has been very un- 
well; I found him very ailing on my return 
— he was under Medical care for some 
time, and then went to the Sea Side whence 
he has returned well. Poor little Mrs. D. 
has had another gall-stone attack; she was 
well ere I returned — she is now at Brigh- 
ton. Dilke was greatly pleased to hear 
from you, and will write a letter for me to 
enclose — He seems greatly desirous of 
hearing from you of the settlement itself — 



[October 14 or 15.] 
I came by ship from Inverness, and was 
nine days at Sea without being sick — a 
little Qualm now and then put me in mind 
of you — however as soon as you touch the 
shore all the horrors of Sickness are soon 
forgotten, as was the case with a Lady on 
board who could not hold her head up all 
the way. We had not been in the Thames 
an hour before her tongue began to some 
tune; paying off as it was fit she should 
all old scores. I was the only Englishman 
on board. There was a downright Scotch- 
man who hearing that there had been a bad 
crop of Potatoes in England had brought 
some triumphant specimens from Scotland 
— these he exhibited with national pride to 
all the Lightermen and Watermen from 
the Nore to the Bridge. I fed upon beef 
all the way ; not being able to eat the thick 
Porridge which the Ladies managed to 
manage with large awkward horn spoons 
into the bargain. Severn has had a narrow 
escape of his Life from a Typhus fever: 
he is now gaining strength — Reynolds has 
returned from a six weeks' enjoyment in 
Devonshire — he is well, and persuades me 
to publish my pot of Basil as an answer to 
the attacks made on me in Blackwood's 
Magazine and the Quarterly Review. There 
have been two Letters in my defence in 
the Chronicle and one in the Examiner, 
copied from the Alfred Exeter Paper, and 
written by Reynolds. I do not know who 
wrote those in the Chronicle. This is a 
mere matter of the moment — I think I 
shall be among the English Poets after my 
death. Even as a Matter of present in- 
terest the attempt to crush me in the Quar- 
terly has only brought me more into notice, 
and it is a common expression among book 
men ' I wonder the Quarterly should cut its 
own throat.' 

It does me not the least harm in Society 
to make me appear little and ridiculous: I 
know when a man is superior to me and 
give him all due respect — he will be the 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



33^ 



last to laugh at me and as for the rest I feel 
that I make an impression upon them which 
insures me personal respect while I am in 
sight whatever they may say when my 
back is turned. Poor Haydon's eyes will 
not suffer him to proceed with his picture 

— he has been in the Country — I have 
seen him but once since my return. I hurry 
matters together here because I do not 
know when the Mail sails — I shall enquire 
to-morrow, and then shall know whether to 
be particular or general in my letter — 
You shall have at least two sheets a day 
till it does sail whether it be three days or 
a fortnight — and then I will begin a fresh 
one for the next Month. The Miss Rey- 
aoldses are very kind to me, but they have 
lately displeased me much, and in this way 

— Now I am coming the Richardson. On 
my return the first day I called they were 
in a sort of taking or bustle about a Cousin 
of theirs who having fallen out with her 
Grrandpapa in a serious manner was invited 
by Mrs. R. to take Asylum in her house. 
She is an east indian and ought to be her 
jrrandfather's Heir. At the time I called 
Mrs. R. was in conference with her up 
itairs, and the young Ladies were warm in 
ler praises down stairs, calling her genteel, 
nteresting and a thousand other pretty 
;hings to which I gave no heed, not being 
martial to 9 days' wonders — Now all is 
;ompletely changed — they hate her, and 
[rom what I hear she is not without faults 

— of a real kind: but she has others which 
ire more apt to make women of inferior 
iharms hate her. She is not a Cleopatra, 
3ut she is at least a Charmian. She has a 
:ich Eastern look; she has fine eyes and 
ine manners. When she comes into a 
^oom she makes an impression the same as 
;he Beauty of a Leopardess. She is too fine 
md too conscious of herself to repulse any 
Man who may address her — from habit 
jhe thinks that nothing particular. I al- 
ways find myself more at ease with such a 
woman; the picture before me always gives 



me a life and animation which I cannot 
possibly feel with anything inferior. I am 
at such times too much occupied in admir- 
ing to be awkward or in a tremble. I for- 
get myself entirely because I live in her. 
You will by this time think I am in love 
with her; so before I go any further I will 
tell you I am not — she kept me awake one 
Night as a tune of Mozart's might do, 
I speak of the thing as a pastime and an 
amusement, than which I can feel none 
deeper than a conversation with an imperial 
woman, the very ' yes ' and ' no ' of whose 
Lips is to me a Banquet. I don't cry to 
take the moon home with me in my Pocket 
nor do I fret to leave her behind me. I 
like her and her like because one has no 
sensations — what we both are is taken for 
granted. You will suppose I have by this 
had much talk with her — no such thing — 
there are the Miss Reynoldses on the look 
out — They think I don't admire her be- 
cause I did not stare at her. 

They call her a flirt to me — What a 
want of knowledge ! She walks across 
a room in such a manner that a Man is 
drawn towards her with a magnetic Power. 
This they call flirting ! they do not know 
things. They do not know what a Woman 
is. I believe though she has faults — the 
same as Charmian and Cleopatra might 
have had. Yet she is a fine thing speaking 
in a worldly way : for there are two distinct 
tempers of mind in which we judge of 
things — the worldly, theatrical and panto- 
mimical; and the unearthly, spiritual and 
ethereal — in the former Buonaparte, Lord 
Byron and this Charmian hold the first 
place in our Minds; in the latter, John 
Howard, Bishop Hooker rocking his child's 
cradle and you my dear Sister are the con- 
quering feelings. As a Man in the world 
I love the rich talk of a Charmian; as an 
eternal Being I love the thought of you. 
I should like her to ruin me, and I should 
like you to save me. Do not think, my 
dear Brother, from this that my Passions 



332 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



are headlong, or likely to be ever of any 
pain to you — 

' I am free from Men of Pleasure's cares, 
By dint of feelings far more deep than theirs.' 

This is Lord Byron, and is one of the finest 
things he has said. I have no town talk 
for you, as I have not been much among 
people — as for Politics they are in my 
opinion only sleepy because they will soon 
be too wide awake. Perhaps not — for the 
long and continued Peace of England itself 
has given us notions of personal safety 
which are likely to prevent the re-establish- 
ment of our national Honesty. There is, 
of a truth, nothing manly or sterling in any 
part of the Government. There are many 
Madmen in the Country I have no doubt, 
who would like to be beheaded on tower 
Hill merely for the sake of dclat, there are 
many Men like Hunt who from a principle 
of taste would like to see things go on 
better, there are many like Sir F. Burdett 
who like to sit at the head of political 
dinners, — but there are none prepared to 
suffer in obscurity for their Country — The 
motives of our worst men are Interest and 
of our best Vanity. We have no Milton, 
no Algernon Sidney — Governors in these 
days lose the title of Man in exchange for 
that of Diplomat and Minister. We breathe 
in a sort of Officinal Atmosphere — All the 
departments of Government have strayed 
far from Simplicity which is the greatest 
of Strength there is as much difference in 
this respect between the present Govern- 
ment and Oliver Cromwell's as there is 
between the 12 Tables of Rome and the 
volumes of Civil Law which were digested 
by Justinian. A Man now entitled Chan- 
cellor has the same honour paid to him 
whether he be a Hog or a Lord Bacon. No 
sensation is created by Greatness but by the 
number of Orders a Man has at his Button 
holes. Notwithstanding the part which the 
Liberals take in the Cause of Napoleon, I 
cannot but think he has done more harm 
to the life of Liberty than any one else 



could have done : not that the divine right 
Gentlemen have done or intend to do any 
good — no they have taken a Lesson of 
him, and will do all the further harm he 
would have done without any of the good. 
The worst thing he has done is, that he has 
taught them how to organise their mon- 
strous armies. The Emperor Alexander it 
is said intends to divide his Empire as did 
Diocletian — creating two Czars besides 
himself, and continuing the supreme Mon- 
arch of the whole. Should he do this and 
they for a series of Years keep peaceable 
among themselves Russia may spread her 
conquest even to China — I think it a very 
likely thing that China itself may fall, 
Turkey certainly will. Meanwhile European 
north Russia will hold its horns against the 
rest of Europe, intriguing constantly with 
France. Dilke, whom you know to be a 
Godwin perfectibility Man, pleases himself 
with the idea that America will be the 
country to take up the human intellect 
where England leaves off — I differ there 
with him greatly — A country like the 
United States, whose greatest Men are 
Franklins and Washingtons will never do 
that. They are great Men doubtless, but 
how are they to be compared to those our 
countrymen Milton and the two Sidneys ? 
The one is a philosophical Quaker full of 
mean and thrifty maxims, the other sold 
the very Charger who had taken him 
through all his Battles. Those Americans 
are great, but they are not sublime Man — 
the humanity of the United States can 
never reach the sublime. Birkbeck's mind 
is too much in the American style — you 
must endeavour to infuse a little Spirit of 
another sort into the settlement, always 
with great caution, for thereby you may 
do your descendants more good than you 
may imagine. If I had a prayer to make 
for any great good, next to Tom's recov- 
ery, it should be that one of your Chil- 
dren should be the first American Poet. I 
have a great mind to make a prophecy, and 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



333 



they say prophecies work out their own 
fulfilment — 

[Here are inserted the lines printed above, p. 
249.] 

[October 16.] 

This is Friday, I know not what day of 
the Month — I will enquire to-morrow, for 
it is fit you should know the time I am 
writing. I went to Town yesterday, and 
calling at Mrs. Millar's was told that your 
Mother would uot be found at home — I 
met Henry as I turned the corner — I had 
DO leisure to return, so I left the letters 
with him. He was looking very well. 
Poor Tom is no better to-night — I am 
afraid to ask him what Message I shall 
send from him. And here I could go on 
complaining of my Misery, but I will keep 
myself cheerful for your Sakes. With a 
^reat deal of trouble I have succeeded in 
getting Fanny to Hampstead. She has 
been several times. Mr. Lewis has been 
vevy kind to Tom all the summer, there 
has scarce a day passed but he has visited 
bim, and not one day without bringing or 
sending some fruit of the nicest kind. He 
lias been very assiduous in his enquiries after 
you — It would give the old Gentleman a 
great deal of pleasure if you would send 
liim a Sheet enclosed in the next parcel to 
me, after you receive this — how long it 
will be first — Why did I not write to 
Philadelphia ? Really I am sorry for that 
neglect. I wish to go on writing ad infi- 
nitum to you — I wish for interesting 
matter and a pen as swift as the wind — 
But the fact is I go so little into the Crowd 
now that I have nothing fresh and fresh 
Bvery day to speculate upon except my own 
Whims and Theories. I have been but once 
to Haydon's, once to Hunt's, once to Rice's, 
once to Hessey's. I have not seen Taylor, I 
have not been to the Theatre. Now if I had 
been many times to all these and was still 
in the habit of going I could on my return 
at night have each day something new to 
tell you of without any stop — But now I 
have such a dearth that when I get to the 



end of this sentence and to the bottom 
of this page I must wait till I can find 
something interesting to you before I begin 
another. After all it is not much matter 
what it may be about, for the very words 
from such a distance penned by this hand 
will be grateful to you — even though I 
were to copy out the tale of Mother Hub- 
bard or Little Red Riding Hood. 

[Later.] 
I have been over to Dilke's this evening 

— there with Brown we have been talk- 
ing of different and indifferent Matters — 
of Euclid, of Metaphysics, of the Bible, 
of Shakspeare, of the horrid System and 
consequences of the fagging at great 
schools. I know not yet how large a par- 
cel I can send — I mean by way of Letters 

— I hope there can be no objection to my 
dowling up a quire made into a small com- 
pass. That is the manner in which I shall 
write. I shall send you more than Letters 

— I mean a tale — which I must begin on 
account of the activity of my Mind ; of its 
inability to remain at rest. It must be 
prose and not very exciting. I must do 
this because in the way I am at present 
situated I have too many interruptions to a 
train of feeling to be able to write Poetry. 
So I shall write this Tale, and if I think it 
worth while get a duplicate made before I 
send it off to you. 

[October 21]. 
This is a fresh beginning the 21st 
October. Charles and Henry were with 
us on Sunday, and they brought me your 
Letter to your Mother — we agree to get a 
Packet off to you as soon as possible. I 
shall dine with your Mother to-morrow, 
when they have promised to have their 
Letters ready. I shall send as soon as 
possible without thinking of the little you 
may have from me in the first parcel, as I 
intend ; as I said before, to begin another 
Letter of more regular information. Here 
I want to communicate so largely in a little 
time that I am puzzled where to direct my 



334 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



attention. Haslam has promised to let me 
know from Capper and Hazlewood. For 
want of something better I shall proceed 
to give you some extracts from my Scotch 
Letters — Yet now I think on it why not 
send you the letters themselves — I have 
three of them at present — I believe Hay- 
don has two which I will get in time. I 
dined with your Mother and Henry at Mrs. 
Millar's on Thursday, when they gave me 
their Letters. Charles's I have not yet — 
he has promised to send it. The thought 
of sending my Scotch Letters has deter- 
mined me to enclose a few more which I 
have received and which will give you the 
best cue to how I am going on, better than 
you could otherwise know. Your Mother 
was well, and I was sorry I could not stop 
later. I called on Hunt yesterday — it has 
been always my fate to meet Oilier there 
— On Thursday I walked with Hazlitt as 
far as Covent Garden: he was going to play 
Racquets. I think Tom has been rather bet- 
ter these few last days — he has been less 
nervous. I expect Reynolds to-morrow. 

[Later, about October 25.] 
Since I wrote thus far I have met with 
that same Lady again, whom I saw at 
Hastings and whom I met when we were 
going to the English Opera. It was in a 
street which goes from Bedford Row to 
Lamb's Conduit Street. — I passed her and 
turned back : she seemed glad of it — glad 
to see me, and not offended at my passing 
her before. We walked on towards Isling- 
ton, where we called on a friend of hers 
who keeps a Boarding School. She has 
always been an enigma to me — she has 
been in a Room with you and Reynolds, 
and wishes we should be acquainted with- 
out any of our common acquaintance know- 
ing it. As we went along, sometimes 
through shabby, sometimes through decent 
Streets, I had my guessing at work, not 
knowing what it would be, and prepared to 
meet any surprise. First it ended at this 
House at Islington : on parting from which 



I pressed to attend her home. She con- 
sented, and then again my thoughts were 
at work what it might lead to, though no^ 
they had received a sort of genteel hini 
from the Boarding School. Our walk end- 
ed in 34 Gloucester Street, Queen Square 

— not exactly so, for we went up-stairs 
into her sitting-room, a very tasty sort oi 
place with Books, Pictures, a bronze Statue 
of Buonaparte, Music, seolian Harp, a Par- 
rot, a Linnet, a Case of choice Liqueurs, etc, 
etc. She behaved in the kindest manner — 
made me take home a grouse for Tom's 
dinner. Asked for my address for the pur- 
pose of sending more game. ... I expect 
to pass some pleasant hours with her no\^ 
and then : in which I feel I shall be of ser- 
vice to her in matters of knowledge and 
taste : if I can I will. . . . She and youi 
George are the only women k pen pr^s de 
mon age whom I would be content to know 
for their mind and friendship alone. — 
I shall in a short time write you as fai 
as I know how I intend to pass my Life 

— I cannot think of those things now Tom 
is so unwell and weak. Notwithstanding 
your Happiness and your recomraendatioE 
I hope I shall never marry. Though the 
most beautiful Creature were waiting foi 
me at the end of a Journey or a Walk : 
though the Carpet were of Silk, the Cur- 
tains of the morning Clouds; the chairs 
and Sofa stuffed with Cygnet's down ; the 
food Manna, the Wine beyond Claret, the 
Window opening on Winander mere, 1 
should not feel — or rather my Happiness 
would not be so fine, as my Solitude is 
sublime. Then instead of what I have de- 
scribed, there is a sublimity to welcome me 
home — The roaring of the wind is mj 
wife and the Stars through the window 
pane are my Children. The mighty ab- 
stract Idea I have of Beauty in all things 
stifles the more divided and minute domes- 
tie happiness — an amiable wife and sweet 
Children I contemplate as a part of that 
Beauty, but I must have a thousand ol 
those beautiful particles to fill up my heart. 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



335 



I feel more and more every day, as ray 
imagination strengthens, that I do not live 
in this world alone but in a thousand 
worlds — No sooner am I alone than shapes 
of epic greatness are stationed around me, 
and serve my Spirit the office which is 
equivalent to a King's bodyguard — then 
* Tragedy with sceptred pall comes sweep- 
ing by.' According to my state of mind I 
am with Achilles shouting in the Trenches, 
or with Theocritus in the Vales of Sicily. 
Or I throw my Avhole being into Troilus, 
and repeating those lines, ' I wander like 
a lost Soul upon the stygian Banks staying 
for waftage,' I melt into the air with a 
voluptuousness so delicate that I am con- 
tent to be alone. These things, combined 
with the opinion I have of the generality of 
women — who appear to me as children to 
whom I would rather give a sugar Plum 
than my time, form a barrier against Matri- 
mony which I rejoice in. 

I have written this that you might see I 
have my share of the highest pleasures, 
and that though I may choose to pass my 
days alone I shall be no Solitary. You see 
there is nothing spleenical in all this. The 
only thing that can ever affect me per- 
sonally for more than one short passing- 
day, is any doubt about my powers for 
poetry — I seldom have any, and I look 
with hope to the nighing time when I shall 
have none. I am as happy as a Man can 
be — that is, in myself I should be happy 
if Tom was well, and I knew you were 
passing pleasant days. Then I should be 
most enviable — with the yearning Passion 
I have for the beautiful, connected and 
made one with the ambition of my intellect. 
Think of my Pleasure in Solitude in com- 
parison of my commerce with the world — 
there I am a child — there they do not 
know me, not even my most intimate ac- 
quaintance — I give in to their feelings as 
though I were refraining from irritating a 
little child. Some think me middling, others 
silly, others foolish — every one thinks he 
sees my weak side against my will, when 



in truth it is with my will — I am content 
to be thought all this because I have in 
my own breast so great a resource. This 
is one great reason why they like me so ; 
because they can all show to advantage in 
a room and eclipse from a certain tact one 
who is reckoned to be a good Poet. I 
hope I am not here playing tricks ' to make 
the angels weep ' : I think not : for I have 
not the least contempt for my species, 
and though it may sound paradoxical, my 
greatest elevations of soul leave me every 
time more humbled — Enough of this — 
though in your Love for me you will not 
think it enough. 

[Later, October 29 or 31.] 
Haslam has been here this morning and 
has taken all the Letters except this sheet, 
which I shall send him by the Twopenny, 
as he will put the Parcel in the Boston 
post Bag by the advice of Capper and 
Hazlewood, who assure him of the safety 
and expedition that way — the Parcel will 
be forwarded to Warder and thence to you 
all the same. There will not be a Phila- 
delphia ship for these six weeks — by that 
time I shall have another Letter to you. 
Mind you I mark this Letter A. By the 
time you will receive this you will have I 
trust passed through the greatest of your 
fatigues. As it was with your Sea Sick- 
ness I shall not hear of them till they are 
past. Do not set to your occupation with 
too great an anxiety — take it calmly — 
and let your health be the prime considera- 
tion. I hope you will have a Son, and it 
is one of my first wishes to have him in my 
Arms — which I will do please God before 
he cuts one double tooth. Tom is rather 
more easy than he has been : but is still so 
nervous that I cannot speak to him of these 
Matters — indeed it is the care I have had 
to keep his Mind aloof from feelings too 
acute that has made this Letter so short a 
one — I did not like to write before him a 
Letter he knew was to reach your hands — 
I cannot even now ask him for any Message 



33^ 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



— his heart speaks to you. Be as happy 
as you can. Think of me, and for my sake 
be cheerful. 

Believe me, my dear Brother and sister, 
Your anxious and affectionate Brother 

John. 

This day is my Birth day. 

All our friends have been anxious in 
their enquiries, and all send their re- 
membrances. 

75. TO FANNY KEATS 

Hampstead, Friday Morn [October 16, 1818]. 

My dear Fanny — You must not con- 
demn me for not being punctual to Thurs- 
day, for I really did not know whether it 
would not affect poor Tom too much to see 
you. You know how it hurt him to part 
with you the last time. At all events you 
shall hear from me ; and if Tom keeps 
pretty well to - morrow, I will see Mr. 
Abbey the next day, and endeavour to set- 
tle that you shall be with us on Tuesday 
or Wednesday. I have good news from 
George — He has landed safely with our 
Sister — they are both in good health — 
their prospects are good — and they are by 
this time nighing to their journey's end — 
you shall hear the particulars soon. 

Your affectionate Brother John. 

Tom's love to you. 

76. TO THE SAME 

[Hampstead, October 26, 1818.] 
My dear Fanny — I called on Mr. Ab- 
bey in the beginning of last Week : when 
he seemed averse to letting you come again 
from having heard that you had been to 
other places besides Well Walk. I do not 
mean to say you did wrongly in speaking 
of it, for there should rightly be no objec- 
tion to such things: but you know with 
what People we are obliged in the course 
of Childhood to associate, whose conduct 
forces us into duplicity and falsehood to 
them. To the worst of People we should 



be opeuhearted: but it is as well as things 
are to be prudent in making any communi- 
cation to any one, that may throw an im- 
pediment in the way of any of the little 
pleasures you may have. I do not recom- 
mend duplicity but prudence with such 
people. Perhaps I am talking too deeply 
for you: if you do not now, you will under- 
stand what I mean in the course of a few 
years. I think poor Tom is a little Better: 
he sends his love to you. I shall call on 
Mr. Abbey to-morrow : when I hope to 
settle when to see you again. Mrs. Dilke 
has been for some time at Brighton — she 
is expected home in a day or two. She 
will be pleased I am sure with your pre- 
sent. I will try for permission for you to 
remain here all Night should Mrs. D. re- 
turn in time. 

Your affectionate Brother John . 

77. TO RICHARD WOODHOUSE 

[Hampstead, October 27, 1818.] 
My dear Woodhouse — Your letter 
gave me great satisfaction, more on ac- 
count of its friendliness than any relish of 
that matter in it which is accounted so 
acceptable to the ' genus irritabile.' The 
best answer I can give you is in a clerklike 
manner to make some observations on two 
principal points which seem to point like 
indices into the midst of the whole pro and 
con about genius, and views, and achieve- 
ments, and ambition, et csetera. — 1st. As 
to the poetical Character itself (I mean 
that sort, of which, if I am anything, I am 
a member ; that sort distinguished from 
the Words worthian, or egotistical Sublime; 
which is a thing per se, and stands alone,) 
it is not itself — it has no self — It is every- 
thing and nothing — It has no character — 
it enjoys light and shade ; it lives in gusto, 
be it foul or fair, high or low, rich or poor, 
mean or elevated — It has as much delight 
in conceiving an lago as an Imogen. What 
shocks the virtuous philosopher delights 
the chameleon poet. It does no harm from 



TO JAMES RICE 



337 



its relish of the dark side of things, any 
more than from its taste for the bright one, 
because they both end in speculation. A 
poet is the most unpoetical of anything in 
existence, because he has no Identity — he 
is continually in for and filling some other 
body. The Sun, — the Moon, — the Sea, 
and men and women, who are creatures of 
impulse, are poetical, and have about them 
an unchangeable attribute ; the poet has 
none, no identity — he is certainly the most 
unpoetical of all God's creatures. — If then 
he has no self, and if I am a poet, where is 
the wonder that I should say I would write 
no more? Might I not at that very instant 
have been cogitating on the Characters of 
Saturn and Ops ? It is a wretched thing 
to confess ; but it is a very fact, that not 
one word I ever utter can be taken for 
granted as an opinion growing out of my 
identical Nature — how can it, when I 
have no Nature ? When I am in a room 
with people, if I ever am free from specu- 
lating on creations of my own brain, then, 
not myself goes home to myself, but the 
identity of every one in the room begins to 
press upon me, so that I am in a very little 
time annihilated — not only among men; it 
would be the same in a nursery of Children. 
I know not whether I make myself wholly 
understood : I hope enough so to let you 
see that no dependence is to be placed on 
what I said that day. 

In the 2d place, I will speak of my 
views, and of the life I purpose to myself. 
I am ambitious of doing the world some 
good: if I should be spared, that may be 
the work of maturer years — in the interval 
I will assay to reach to as high a summit 
in poetry as the nerve bestowed upon me 
will suffer. The faint conceptions I have 
of poems to come bring the blood fre- 
iquently into my forehead — All I hope is, 
that I may not lose all interest in human 
affairs — that the solitary Indifference I 
feel for applause, even from the finest 
spirits, will not blunt any acuteness of 
vision I may have. I do not think it will. 



I feel assured I should write from the 
mere yearning and fondness I have for the 
beautiful, even if my night's labours should 
be burnt every Morning, and no eye ever 
shine upon them. But even now I am 
perhaps not speaking from myself, but 
from some Character in whose soul I now 
live. 

I am sure however that this next sen- 
tence is from myself — I feel your anxiety, 
good opinion, and friendship, in the highest 
degree, and am 

Yours most smcerely John Keats. 



78. TO FANNY KEATS 

[Hampstead, November 5, 1818.] 
My DEAR Fanny — I have seen Mr. 
Abbey three times about you, and have not 
been able to get his consent. He says that 
once more between this and the Holidays 
will be sufficient. What can I do ? I 
should have been at Walthamstow several 
times, but I am not able to leave Tom for 
so long a time as that would take me. 
Poor Tom has been ratlier better these 4 
last days in consequence of obtaining a lit- 
tle rest a nights. Write to me as often as 
you can, and believe that I would do any- 
thing to give you any pleasure — we must 
as yet wait patiently. 

Your affectionate Brother John . 



79. TO JAMES RICE 

WeU Walk [Hampstead,] Nov'. 24, [1818]. 

My dear Rice — Your amende Honor- 
able I must call ' un surcroit d'Amiti^,' 
for I am not at all sensible of anything but 
that you were unfortunately engaged and I 
was unfortunately in a hurry. I completely 
understand your feeling in this mistake, 
and find in it that balance of comfort which 
remains after regretting your uneasiness. 
I have long made up my mind to take for 
granted the genuine - heartedness of my 
friends, notwithstanding any temporary 



338 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



ambiguousness in their behaviour or their 
tongues, nothing of which however I had 
the least scent of this morning. I say 
completely understand ; for I am everlast- 
ingly getting my mind into such-like pain- 
ful trammels — and am even at this moment 
suffering under them in the case of a friend 
of ours. — I will tell you two most unfor- 
tunate and parallel slips — it seems down- 
right pre-intention — A friend says to me, 
'Keats, I shall go and see Severn this 
week.' — ' Ah ! (says I) you want him to 
take your Portrait.' — And again, ' Keats,' 
says a friend, ' when will you come to 
town again ? ' — 'I will,' says I, ' let you 
have the MS. next week.' In both these 
cases I appeared to attribute an interested 
motive to each of my friends' questions — 
the first made him flush, the second made 
him look angry: — and yet I am innocent 
in both cases ; my mind leapt over every 
interval, to what I saw was per se a plea- 
sant subject with him. You see I have no 
allowances to make — you see how far I 
am from supposing you could show me any 
neglect. I very much regret the long time 
I have been obliged to exile from you : for 
I have one or two rather pleasant occasions 
to confer upon with you. What I have 
heard from George is favourable — I ex- 
pect a letter from the Settlement itself. 

Your sincere friend John Keats. 

I cannot give any good news of Tom. 

80. TO FANNY KEATS 

[Hampstead.] Tuesday Morn 
[December 1, 1818]. 

My dear Fanny — Poor Tom has been 
so bad that I have delayed your visit hither 
— as it would be so painful to you both. I 
cannot say he is any better this morning — 
he is in a very dangerous state — I have 
scarce any hopes of him.''* Keep up your 
spirits for me my dear Fanny — repose 
entirely in 

Your affectionate Brother John. 



81. TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 

[Hampstead, about Dee"^- 18, 1818.] 
My dear Brother and Sister — You 
will have been prepared before this reaches 
you for the worst news you could have, 
nay, if Haslam's letter arrives in proper 
time, I have a consolation in thinking that 
the first shock will be past before you re- 
ceive this. The last days of poor Tom 
were of the most distressing nature ; but 
his last moments were not so painful, and 
his very last was without a pang. I will 
not enter into any parsonic comments on 
death — yet the common observations of 
the commonest people on death are as true 
as their proverbs. I have scarce a doubt 
of immortality of some nature or other — 
neither had Tom. My friends have been 
exceedingly kind to me every one of them 

— Brown detained me at his House. I 
suppose no one could have had their time 
made smoother than mine has been. Dur- 
ing poor Tom's illness 1 was not able to 
write and since his death the task of begin- 
ning has been a hindrance to me. Within 
this last Week I have been everywhere — 
and I will tell you as nearly as possible 
how all go on. With Dilke and Brown 1 
am quite thick — with Brown indeed I am 
going to domesticate — that is, we shall 
keep house together. I shall have the 
front parlour and he the back one, by 
which I shall avoid the noise of Bentley's 
Children — and be the better able to go on 
with my Studies — which have been greatly 
interrupted lately, so that I have not the 
shadow of an idea of a book in my head, 
and my pen seems to have grown too gouty 
for sense. How are you going on now ? 
The goings on of the world makes me dizzy 

— There you are with Birkbeck — here I 
am with Brown — sometimes I fancy an 
immense separation, and sometimes as at 
present, a direct communication of Spirit 
with you. That will be one of the grandeurs 
of immortality — There will be no space, 
and consequently the only commerce be- 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



339 



tween spirits will be by their intelligence 
of each other — when they will completely 
understand each other, while we in this 
world merely comprehend each other in 
different degrees — the higher the degree 
of good so higher is our Love and friend- 
ship. I have been so little used to writing 
lately that I am afraid you will not smoke 
my meaning so I will give an example — 
Suppose Brown or Haslam or any one 
whom I understand in the next degree to 
what I do you, were in America, they would 
be so much the farther from me in propoi'- 
tion as their identity was less impressed 
upon me. Now the reason why I do not 
feel at the present moment so far from you 
is that I remember your Ways and Man- 
ners and actions ; I know your manner of 
thinking, your manner of feeling : I know 
what shape your joy or your sorrow would 
take; I know the manner of your walking, 
standing, sauntering, sitting down, laugh- 
ing, punning, and every action so truly that 
you seem near to me. You will remember 
me in the same manner — and the more 
when I tell you that I shall read a passage 
of Shakspeare every Sunday at ten o'Clock 
— you read one at the same time, and we 
shall be as near each other as blind bodies 
can be in the same room. 

I saw your Mother the day before yes- 
terday, and intend now frequently to pass 
half a day with her — she seem'd toler- 
ably well. I called in Henrietta Street and 
so was speaking with your Mother about 
Mis5 Millar — we had a chat about Heir- 
esses — she told me I think of 7 or eight 
dying Swains. Charles was not at home. 
I think I have heard a little more talk 
about Miss Keasle — all I know of her is 
she had a new sort of shoe on of bright 
leather like our Knapsacks. Miss Millar 
gave me one of her confounded pinches. 
N. B. did not like it. Mrs. Dilke went 
with me to see Fanny last week, and Has- 
lam went with me last Sunday. She was 
well — she gets a little plumper and had a 
little Colour. On Sunday I brought from 



her a present of facescreens and a work- 
bag for Mrs. D. — they were really very 
pretty. From Walthamstow we walked to 
Bethnal green — where I felt so tired from 
my long walk that I was obliged to go to 
Bed at ten. Mr. and Mrs. Keasle were 
there. Haslam has been excessively kind, 
and his anxiety about you is great ; I never 
meet him but we have some chat thereon. 
He is always doing me some good turn — 
he gave me this thin paper ■* ' for the pur- 
pose of writing to you. I have been pass- 
ing an hour this morning with Mr. Lewis — 
he wants news of you very much. Haydon 
was here yesterday — he amused us much 
by speaking of young Hoppner who went 
with Captain Ross on a voyage of discovery 
to the Poles. The Ship was sometimes en- 
tirely surrounded with vast moimtains and 
crags of ice, and in a few Minutes not a 
particle was to be seen all round the Hori- 
zon. Once they met with so vast a Mass 
that they gave themselves over for lost ; 
their last resource was in meeting it with 
the Bowsprit, which they did, and split it 
asunder and glided through it as it parted, 
for a great distance — one Mile and more. 
Their eyes were so fatigued with the eter- 
nal dazzle and whiteness that they lay down 
on their backs upon deck to relieve their 
sight on the blue sky. Hoppner describes his 
dreadful weariness at the continual day — 
the sun ever moving in a circle round above 
their heads — so pressing upon him that he 
could not rid himself of the sensation even 
in the dai-k Hold of the Ship. The Esqui- 
maux are described as the most wretched 
of Beings — they float from their summer 
to their winter residences and back again 
like white Bears on the ice floats. They 
seem never to have washed, and so when 
their features move the red skin shows be- 
neath the cracking peel of dirt. They had 
no notion of any inhabitants in the World 
but themselves. The sailors who had not 
seen a Star for some time, when they came 
again southwards on the hailing of the first 
revision of one, all ran upon deck with feel- 



340 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



ings of the most joyful nature. Haydon's 
eyes will not suffer him to proceed with his 
Picture — his Physician tells him he must 
remain two months more, inactive. Hunt 
keeps on in his old way — I am completely 
tired of it all. He has lately publish'd a 
Pocket Book called the literary Pocket- 
Book — full of the most sickening stuff you 
can imagine. Reynolds is well; he has be- 
come an Edinburgh Reviewer. I have not 
heard from Bailey. Rice I have seen very 
little of lately — and I am very sorry for it. 
The Miss R's. are all as usual. Archer 
above all people called on me one day — he 
wanted some information by my means, 
from Hunt and Haydon, concerning some 
Man they knew. I got him what he wanted, 
but know none of the whys and wherefores. 
Poor Kirkman left Wentworth Place one 
evening about half -past eight and was 
stopped, beaten and robbed of his Watch in 
Pond Street. I saw him a few days since; 
he had not recovered from his bruises. I 
called on Hazlitt the day I went to Rom- 
ney Street. — I gave John Hunt extracts 
from your letters — he has taken no notice. 
I have seen Lamb lately — Brown and I 
were taken by Hunt to Novello's — there 
we were devastated and excruciated with 
bad and repeated puns — Brown don't want 
to go again. We went the other evening 
to see Brutus a new Tragedy by Howard 
Payne, an American — Kean was excellent 
— the play was very bad. It is the first 
time I have been since I went with you to 
the Lyceum. 

Mrs. Brawne who took Brown's house 
for the Summer, still resides in Hampstead. 
She is a very nice woman, and her daughter 
senior '^^ is I think beautiful and elegant, 
graceful, silly, fashionable and strange. 
We have a little tiff now and then — and 
she behaves a little better, or I must have 
sheered off. I find by a sidelong report 
from your Mother that I am to be invited 
to Miss Millar's birthday dance. Shall I 
dance with Miss Waldegrave ? Eh ! I shall 
be obliged to shirk a good many there. I 



shall be the only Dandy there — and indeed 
I merely comply with the invitation that 
the party may not be entirely destitute of 
a specimen of that race. I shall appear in 
a complete dress of purple, Hat and all — 
with a list of the beauties I have conquered 
embroidered round my Calves. 

Thursday [December 24]. 
This morning is so very fine, I should 
have walked over to Walthamstow if I had 
thought of it yesterday. What are you 
doing this morning ? Have you a clear 
hard frost as we have ? How do you come 
on with the gun ? Have you shot a Buf- 
falo ? Have you met with any Pheasants ? 
My Thoughts are very frequently in a for- 
eign Country — I live miore out of England 
than in it. The Mountains of Tartary are 
a favourite lounge, if I happen to miss the 
Alleghany ridge, or have no whim for 
Savoy. There must be great pleasure in 
pursuing game — pointing your gun — no, 
it won't do — now, no — rabbit it — now 
bang — smoke and feathers — where is it ? 
Shall you be able to get a good pointer or 
so ? Have you seen Mr. Trimmer ? He 
is an acquaintance of Peachey's. Now I 
am not addressing myself to G. minor, and 
yet I am — for you are one. Have you 
some warm furs ? By your next Letters I 
shall expect to hear exactly how you go on 
— smother nothing — let us have all ; fair 
and foul, all plain. Will the little bairn 
have made his entrance before you have 
this ? Kiss it for me, and when it can first 
know a cheese from a Caterpillar show it 
my picture twice a Week. You will be 
glad to hear that Gifford's attack upon me 
has done me service — it has got my Book 
among several sets — Nor must I forget to 
mention once more what I suppose Haslam 
has told you, the present of a £25 note I 
had anonymously sent me. I have many 
things to tell you — the best way will be 
to make copies of my correspondence; and 
I must not forget the Sonnet I received 
with the Note. Last Week I received the 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



34t 



following from Woodhouse whom you must 
recollect: — 

' My dear Keats — I send enclosed a Let- 
ter, which when read take the trouble to return 
to me. The History of its reaching me is this. 
My Cousin, Miss Frogley of Hounslow, borrowed 
my copy of Endymion for a specified time. Be- 
fore she had time to look into it, she and my 
friend Mr. Hy. Neville of Esher, who was house 
Surgeon to the late Princess Charlotte, insisted 
upon having it to read for a day or two, and un- 
dertook to make my Cousin's peace with me on 
account of the extra delay. Neville told me 
that one of the Misses Porter (of romance Cele- 
brity) had seen it on his table, dipped into it, 
and expressed a wish to read it. I desired he 
should keep it as long and lend it to as many as 
he pleased, provided it was not allowed to slum- 
ber on any one's shelf. I learned subsequently 
from Miss Frogley that these Ladies had re- 
quested of Mr. Neville, if he was acquainted 
with the Author, the Pleasure of an introduc- 
tion. About a week back the enclosed was 
transmitted by Mr. Neville to my Cousin, as a 
species of Apology for keeping her so long with- 
out the Book, and she sent it to me, knowing 
that it would give me Pleasure — I forward it 
to you for somewhat the same reason, but prin- 
cipally because it gives me the opportunity of 
naming to you (which it would have been fruit- 
less to do before) the opening there is for an in- 
troduction to a class of society from which you 
may possibly derive advantage, as well as quali- 
fication, if you think proper to avail yourself of 
it. In such a case I should be very happy to 
further your Wishes. But do just as you please. 
The whole is entirely entre nous. — 

'Yours, etc., R. W.' 

Well — now this is Miss Porter's Letter 
to Neville — 

' Dear Sir — As my Mother is sending a 
Messenger to Esher, I cannot but make the 
same the bearer of my regrets for not having 
had the pleasure of seeing you the morning you 
called at the gate. I had given orders to be 
denied, I was so very unwell with my still ad- 
hesive cold ;■ but had I known it was you I 
should have taken off the interdict for a few 
minutes, to say how very much I am delighted 
with Endymion. I had just finished the Poem 
and have done as you permitted, lent it to Miss 
Fitzgerald. I regret you are not personally 
acquainted with the Author, for I should have 



been happy to have acknowledged to him, 
through the advantage of your communication, 
the very rare dehght my sister and myself have 
enjoyed from the first fruits of Genius. I hope 
the ill-natured Review will not have damaged ' 
(or damped) ' such true Parnassian fire — it 
ought not, for when Life is granted, etc' 

— and so she goes on. Now I feel more 
obliged than flattered by this — so obliged 
that I will not at present give you an ex- 
travaganza of a Lady Romancer. I will be 
introduced to them if it be merely for the 
pleasure of writing to you about it — I 
shall certainly see a new race of People. 
I shall more certainly have no time for 
them. 

Hunt has asked me to meet Tom Moore 
some day — so you shall hear of him. The 
Night we went to Novello's there was a 
complete set to of Mozart and punning. I 
was so completely tired of it that if I were 
to follow my own inclinations I should 
never meet any one of that set again, not 
even Hunt, who is certainly a pleasant fel- 
low in the main when you are with him — 
but in reality he is vain, egotistical, and 
disgusting in matters of taste and in morals. 
He understands many a beautiful thing; 
but then, instead of giving other minds 
credit for the same degree of perception as 
he himself professes — he begins an expla- 
nation in such a curious manner that our 
taste and self-love is offended continually. 
Hunt does one harm by making fine 
things petty, and beautiful things hateful. 
Through him I am indifferent to Mozart, 
I care not for white Busts — and many a 
glorious thing when associated with him 
becomes a nothing. This distorts one's 
mind — makes one's thoughts bizarre — 
perplexes one in the standard of Beauty. 
Martin is very much irritated against 
Blackwood for printing some Letters in his 
Magazine which were Martin's property — 
he always found excuses for Blackwood till 
he himself was injured, and now he is en- 
raged. I have been several times thinking 
whether or not I should send you the Ex- 



342 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



aminers, as Birkbeck no doubt has all the 
good periodical Publications — I will save 
them at all events. I must not forget to 
mention how attentive and useful Mrs. 
Bentley has been — I am very sorry to 
leave her — but I must, and I hope she will 
not be much a loser by it. Bentley is very 
well — he has just brought me a clothes'- 
basket of Books. Brown has gone to town 
to-day to take his Nephews who are on a 
visit here to see the Lions. I am passing 
a Quiet day — which I have not done for a 
long while — and if I do continue so, I feel 
I must again begin with my poetry — for if 
I am not in action mind or Body I am in 
pain — and from that I suffer greatly by 
going into parties where from the rules of 
society and a natural pride I am obliged to 
smother my Spirit and look like an Idiot — 
because I feel my impulses given way to 
would too much amaze them. I live under 
an everlasting restraint — never relieved 
except when I am composing — so I will 
write away. 

Friday [December 25]. 
I think you knew before you left Eng- 
land that my next subject would be * the 
fall of Hyperion.' I went on a little with 
it last night, but it will take some time to 
get into the vein again. I will not give you 
any extracts because I wish the whole to 
make an impression. I have however a few 
Poems which you will like, and I will copy 
out on the next sheet. I shall dine with 
Haydon on Sunday, and go over to Wal- 
thamstow on Monday if the frost hold. I 
think also of going into Hampshire this 
Christmas to Mr. Snook's — they say I 
shall be very much amused — But I don't 
know — I think I am in too huge a Mind 
for study — I must do it — I must wait at 
home and let those who wish come to see 
me. I cannot always be (how do you spell 
it ?) trapsing. Here I must tell you that I 
have not been able to keep the journal or 
write the Tale I promised — now I shall be 
able to do so. I will write to Haslam this 



morning to know when the Packet sails, 
and till it does I will write something every 
day — After that my journal shall go on 
like clockwork, and you must not complain 
of its dulness — for what I wish is to write 
a quantity to you — knowing well that dul- 
ness itself will from me be interesting to 
you — You may conceive how this not hav- 
ing been done has weighed upon me. I 
shall be able to judge from your next what 
sort of information will be of most service 
or amusement to you. Perhaps as you were i 
fond of giving me sketches of character i 
you may like a little picnic of scandal even 
across the Atlantic. But now I must speak 
particularly to you, my dear Sister — for I 
know you love a little quizzing better than 
a great bit of apple dumpling. Do you . 
know Uncle Redhall ? He is a little Man 
with an innocent powdered upright head, j 
he lisps with a protruded under lip — he " 
has two Nieces, each one would weigh three 
of him — one for height and the other for 
breadth — he knew Bartolozzi. He gave a 
supper, and ranged his bottles of wine all 
up the Kitchen and cellar stairs — quite 
ignorant of what might be drunk — It 
might have been a good joke to pour on 
the sly bottle after bottle into a washing 
tub, and roar for more — If you were to 
trip him up it would discompose a Pigtail 
and bring his under lip nearer to his nose. 
He never had the good luck to lose a silk 
Handkerchief in a Crowd, and therefore 
lias only one topic of conversation — Bar- 
tolozzi. Shall I give you Miss Brawne ? 
She is about my height — with a fine style 
of countenance of the lengthened sort — 
she wants sentiment in every feature — 
she manages to make her hair look well 
— her nostrils are fine — though a little 
painful — her mouth is bad and good — her 
Profile is better than her full-face which 
indeed is not full but pale and thin without 
showing any bone. Her shape is very 
graceful and so are her movements — her 
Arms are good her hands baddish — her 
feet tolerable. She is not seventeen — but i 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



343 



she is ignorant — monstrous in her behav- 
iour, flying out in all directions — calling 
people such names that I was forced lately 
to make use of the term Minx — this is I 
think not from any innate vice, but from a 
penchant she has for acting stylishly — I 
am however tired of such style and shall 
decline any more of it. She had a friend 
to visit her lately — you have known plenty 
such — her face is raw as if she was stand- 
ing out in a frost ; her lips raw and seem 
always ready for a Pullet — she plays the 
Music without one sensation but the feel of 
the ivory at her fingers. She is a down- 
right Miss without one set off — We hated 
her and smoked her and baited her and I 
think drove her away. Miss B. thinks her 
a Paragon of fashion, and says she is the 
only woman she would change persons with. 
Wbat a stupe — She is superior as a Rose 
to a Dandelion. When we went to bed 
Brown observed as he put out the Taper 
what a very ugly old woman that Miss 
Robinson would make — at which I must 
have groaned aloud for I 'm sure ten min- 
utes. I have not seen the thing Kingston 
again — George will describe him to you — 
I shall insinuate some of these Creatures 
into a Comedy some day — and perhaps 
have Hunt among them — 

Scene, a little Parlour. Enter Hunt — 
Gattie — Hazlitt — Mrs. Novello — Oilier. 
Gattie. Ha ! Hunt, got into your new 
house ? Ha ! Mrs. Novello : seen Altam 
and his Wife ? — Mrs. N. Yes (with a 
grin), it's Mr. Hunt's, isn't it? — Gattie. 
Hunt's ? no, ha ! Mr. Oilier, I congratu- 
late you upon the highest compliment I 
ever heard paid to the Book. Mr. Hazlitt, 
I hope you are well. — Hazlitt. Yes Sir, 
no Sir. — Mr. Hunt (at the Music), ' La 
Biondina,' etc. Hazlitt did you ever hear 
this? — 'La Biondina,' etc. — Hazlitt. O 
no Sir — I never. — Oilier. Do, Hunt, give 
it us over again — divine. — Gattie. Divino 
— Hunt, when does your Pocket-Book come 
out? — Hunt. 'What is this absorbs me 
quite ? ' O we are spinning on a little, we 



shall floridise soon I hope. Such a thing 
was very much wanting — people think of 
nothing but money getting — now for me 
I am rather inclined to the liberal side of 
things. I am reckoned lax in my Christian 
principles, etc. etc. etc. 

[December 29.] 

It is some days since I wrote the last 
page — and what I have been about since 
I have no Idea. I dined at Haslam's on 
Sunday — with Haydon yesterday, and saw 
Fanny in the morning ; she was well. Just 
now I took out my poem to go on with it, 
but the thought of my writing so little to 
you came upon me and I could not get on — 
so I have began at random and I have not 
a word to say — and yet my thoughts are 
so full of you that I can do nothing else. 
I shall be confined at Hampstead a few 
days on account of a sore throat — the 
first thing I do will be to visit your Mo- 
ther again. The last time I saw Henry 
he show'd me his first engraving, which I 
thought capital. Mr. Lewis called this 
morning and brought some American Pa- 
pers — I have not look'd into them — I 
think we ought to have heard of you before 
this — I am in daily expectation of Letters 
— Nil desperandum. Mrs. Abbey wishes 
to take Fanny from School — I shall strive 
all I can against that. There has hap- 
pened a great Misfortune in the Drewe 
Family — old Drewe has been dead some 
time ; and lately George Drewe expired 
in a fit — on which account Reynolds has 
gone into Devonshire. He dined a few 
days since at Horace Twisse's with Listen 
and Charles Kemble. I see very little of 
him now, as I seldom go to Little Britain 
because the Ennui always seizes me there, 
and John Reynolds is very dull at home. 
Nor have I seen Rice. How you are now 
going on is a Mystery to me — I hope a few 
days will clear it up. 

[December 30.] 
I never know the day of the Month. It 
is very fine here to-day, though I expect a 



344 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



Thundercloud, or rather a snow cloud, in 
less than an hour. I am at present alone 
at Wentworth Place — Brown being at 
Chichester and Mr. and Mrs. Dilke making 
a little stay in Town. I know not what I 
should do without a sunshiny morning now 
and then — it clears up one's spirits. Dilke 
and I frequently have some chat about you. 
I have now and then some doubt, but he 
seems to have a great confidence. I think 
there will soon be perceptible a change in 
the fashionable slang literature of the day 
— it seems to me that Reviews have had 
their day — that the public have been sur- 
feited — there will soon be some new folly 
to keep the Parlours in talk — What it is I 
care not. We have seen three literary 
Kings in our Time — Scott, Byron, and 
then the Scotch novels. All now appears 
to be dead — or I may mistake, literary 
Bodies may still keep up the Bustle which 
I do not hear. Haydon show'd me a letter 
he had received from Tripoli — Ritchie was 
well and in good Spirits, among Camels, 
Turbans, Palm Trees, and Sands. You may 
remember I promised to send him an Endy- 
mion which I did not — however he has 
one — you have one. One is in the Wilds 
of Annerica — the other is on a Camel's 
back in the plains of Egypt. I am looking 
into a Book of Dubois's — he has written 
directions to the Players — one of them is 
very good. 'In singing never mind the 
music — observe what time you please. It 
would be a pretty degradation indeed if 
you were obliged to confine your genius to 
the dull regularity of a fiddler — horse hair 
and cat's guts — no, let him keep your 
time and play your tune — dodge him.'' I 
will now copy out the Letter and Sonnet I 
have spoken of. The outside cover was 
thus directed, 'Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, 
(Booksellers), No. 93 Fleet Street, Lon- 
don,' and it contained this : 

' Messrs. Taylor and Hessey are requested to 
forward the enclosed letter by some safe mode 
of conveyance to the Author of Endymion, who 
is not known at Teignmouth : or if they have 



not his address, they will return the letter 
by post, directed as below, within a fortnight, 
"Mr. P. Fenbank, P. 0., Teignmouth." 9th 
Novr. 1818. 

In this sheet was enclosed the following, 
with a superscription — ' Mr. John Keats, 
Teignmouth.' Then came Sonnet to John 
Keats — which I would not copy for any in 
the world but you — who know that I scout 
'mild light and loveliness' or any such 
nonsense in myself. 

Star of high promise ! — not to this dark age 
Do thy mild light and loveliness belong ; 
For it is blind, intolerant, and wrong ; 
Dead to empyreal soarings, and the rage 
Of scoffing spirits bitter war doth wage 
With all that bold integrity of song. 
Yet thy clear beam shall shine through ages 
strong 
To ripest times a light and heritage. 
And there breathe now who dote upon thy 
fame, 
Whom thy wild numbers wrap beyond their 
being, 
Who love the freedom of thy lays — their 
aim 
Above the scope of a dull tribe unseeing — 
And there is one whose hand will never scant 
From his poor store of fruits all thou canst 
want. 
November 1818. turn over 

I turn'd over and found a £25 note. 
Now this appears to me all very proper — 
if I had refused it I should have behaved 
in a very bragadochio dunderheaded man- 
ner — and yet the present galls me a little, 
and I do not know whether I shall not re- 
turn it if I ever meet with the donor after, 
whom to no purpose I have written. I 
have your Miniature on the Table George 
the great — it 's very like — though not 
quite about the upper lip. I wish we had 
a better of your little George. I must not 
forget to tell you that a few days since I 
went with Dilke a shooting on the heath 
and shot a Tomtit. There were as many 
guns abroad as Birds. I intended to have 
been at Chichester this Wednesday — but 
on account of this sore throat I wrote him 
(Brown) my excuse yesterday. 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



345 



Thursday [December 31]. 
(I will date when I finish.) — I re- 
ceived a Note from Haslam yesterday — 
asking if my letter is ready — now this is 
only the second sheet — notmthstanding all 
my promises. But you must reflect what 
hindrances I have had. However on seal- 
ing this I shall have nothing to prevent my 
proceeding in a gradual journal, which will 
increase in a Month to a considerable size. 
I will insert any little pieces I may write — 
though I will not give any extracts from 
my large poem which is scarce began. I 
want to hear very much whether Poetry 
and literature in general has gained or lost 
interest with you — and what sort of writ- 
ing is of the highest gust with you now. 
With what sensation do you read Fielding ? 

— and do not Hogarth's pictures seem an 
old thing to you ? Yet you are very little 
more removed from general association 
than I am — recollect that no Man can live 
but in one society at a time — his enjoy- 
ment in the different states of human 
society must depend upon the Powers of 
his Mind — that is you can imagine a 
Roman triumph or an Olympic game as 
well as I can. We with our bodily eyes 
see but the fashion and Manners of one 
country for one age — and then we die. 
Now to me manners and customs long 
since passed whether among the Babylo- 
nians or the Bactrians are as real, or even 
more real than those among which I now 
live — My thoughts have turned lately this 
way — The more we know the more in- 
adequacy we find in the world to satisfy us 

— this is an old observation ; but I have 
made up my Mind never to take anything 
for granted — but even to examine the 
truth of the commonest proverbs — This 
however is true. Mrs. Tighe and Beattie 
once delighted me — now I see through 
them and can find nothing in them but 
weakness, and yet how many they still de- 
light ! Perhaps a superior being may look 
upon Shakspeare in the same light — is it 
possible? No — This same inadequacy is 



discovered (forgive me, little George, you 
know I don't mean to put you in the mess) 
in Women with few exceptions — the Dress 
Maker, the blue Stocking, and the most 
charming sentimentalist differ but in a 
slight degree and are equally smokeable. 
But I will go no further — I may be speak- 
ing sacrilegiously — and on my word I 
have thought so little that I have not one 
opinion upon anything except in matters 
of taste — I never can feel certain of any 
truth but from a clear perception of its 
Beauty — and I find myself very young 
minded even in that perceptive power — 
which I hope will increase. A year ago I 
could not understand in the slightest de- 
gree Raphael's cartoons — now I begin to 
read them a little — And how did I learn 
to do so ? By seeing something done in 
quite an opposite spirit — I mean a picture 
of Guido's in which all the Saints, instead 
of that heroic simplicity and unaffected 
grandeur which they inherit from Raphael, 
had each of them both in countenance and 
gesture all the canting, solemn, melodra- 
matic mawkishness of Mackenzie's father 
Nicholas. When I was last at Haydou's I 
looked over a Book of Prints taken from 
the fresco of the Church at Milan, the 
name of which I forget — in it are com- 
prised Specimens of the first and second 
age of art in Italy. I do not think I ever 
had a greater treat out of Shakspeare. 
Full of Romance and the most tender feel- 
ing — magnificence of draperies beyond 
any I ever saw, not excepting Raphael's. 
But Grotesque to a curious pitch — yet 
still making up a fine whole — even finer 
to me than more accomplish'd works — as 
there was left so much room for Imagina- 
tion. I have not heard one of this last 
course of Hazlitt's lectures. They were 
upon ' Wit and Humour,' ' the English 
comic writers.' 

Saturday, Jan^- 2nd [1819]. 
Yesterday Mr. and Mrs. D. and myself 
dined at Mrs. Brawne's — nothing particu- 
lar passed. I never intend hereafter to 



346 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



spend any time with Ladies unless they are 
handsome — you lose time to no purpose. 
For that reason I shall beg leave to decline 
going again to Redall's or Butler's or any 
Squad where a fine feature cannot be mus- 
tered among them all — and where all the 
evening's amusement consists in saying 
'your good health, your good health, and 
YOUR good health — and (O I beg your 

pardon) yours, Miss ,' and such thing 

not even dull enough to keep one awake — 
With respect to amiable speaking I can 
read — let my eyes be fed or I '11 never go 
out to dinner anywhere. Perhaps you may 
have heard of the dinner given to Thos. 
Moore in Dublin, because I have the ac- 
count here by me in the Philadelphia dem- 
ocratic paper. The most pleasant thing 
that occurred was the speech Mr. Tom made 
on his Father's health being drank. I am 
afraid a great part of my Letters are filled 
up with promises and what I will do rather 
than any great deal written — but here I 
say once for all — that circumstances pre- 
vented me from keeping my promise in my 
last, but now I affirm that as there will be 
nothing to hinder me I will keep a journal 
for you. That I have not yet done so you 
would forgive if you knew how many hours 
I have been repenting of my neglect. For 
I have no thought pervading me so con- 
stantly and frequently as that of you — my 
Poem cannot frequently drive it away — 
you will retard it much more than you 
could by taking up my time if you were in 
England. 1 never forget you except after 
seeing now and then some beautiful woman 
— but that is a fever — the thought of you 
both is a passion with me, but for the most 
part a calm one. I asked Dilke for a few 
lines for you — he has promised them — I 
shall send what I have written to Haslam 
on Monday Morning — what I can get into 
another sheet to-morrow I will — There 
are one or two little poems you might like. 
I have given up snuff very nearly quite — 
Dilke has promised to sit with me this 
•evening, I wish he would come this minute 



for I want a pinch of snuff very much just 
now — I have none though in my own snuff 
box. My sore throat is much better to-day 

— I think I might venture on a pinch. 
Here are the Poems — they will explain 
themselves — as all poems should do with- 
out any comment — 

[The poem entitled 'Fancy,' pp. 124, 125, is 
here inserted.] 

I did not think this had been so long a 
Poem. I have another not so long — but 
as it will more conveniently be copied on 
the other side I will just put down here 
some observations on Caleb Williams by 
Hazlitt — I meant to say St. Leon, for al- 
though he has mentioned all the Novels of 
Godwin very freely I do not quote them, 
but this only on account of its being a 
specimen of his usual abrupt manner, and 
fiery laconicism. He says of St. Leon — 

' He is a limb torn off society. In possession 
of eternal youth and beauty he can feel no love; 
surrounded, tantalised, and tormented with 
riches, lie can do no good. The faces of Men 
pass before him as in a speculum ; but he is at- 
tached to them by no common tie of sympathy 
or suffering. He is thrown back into himself 
and his own thoughts. He lives in the solitude 
of his own breast — without wife or child or 
friend or Enemy in the world. This is the soli- 
tude of the soul, not of woods or trees or mountains 

— but the desert of society — the waste and ob- 
livion of the heart. He is himself alone. His 
existence is purely intellectual, and is therefore 
intolerable to one who has felt the rapture of 
affection, or the anguish of woe.' 

As I am about it I might as well give you . 
his character of Godwin as a Romance,«r: — 

' Whoever else is, it is pretty clea^ .^r that the 
author of Caleb Williams is not the author of 
Waverley. Nothing can be more dist. 'met or ex- 
cellent in their several ways than t ^hese two 
writers. If the one owes almost ever 3 y thing to 
external observations and traditional c 5 haracter, 
the other owes everything to internal<-o concep- 
tion and contemplation of the possible ^ vorkings 
of the human Mind. There is little kn owledge 
of the world, little variety, neither an eye for 
the picturesque nor a talent for the hi imorous 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



347 



in Caleb Williams, for instance, but you cannot 
doubt for a moment of the originality of the 
work and the force of the conception. The im- 
pression made upon the reader is the exact 
measure of the strength of the author's genius. 
For the effect both in Caleb Wilhams and St. 
Leon is entirely made out, not by facts nor 
dates, by blackletter, or magazine learning, by 
transcript nor record, but by intense and pa- 
tient study of the human heart, and by an im- 
agination projecting itself into certain situations, 
and capable of working up its imaginary feel- 
ings to the height of reality.' 

This appears to me quite correct — Now I 
will copy the other Poem — it is on the 
double immortality of Poets — 

[' Bards of Passion and of Mirth,' p. 12.5]. 

These are specimeus of a sort of rondeau 
which I think I shall become partial to — 
because you have one idea amplified with 
greater ease and more delight and freedom 
than in the sonnet. It is my intention to 
wait a few years before I publish any 
minor poems — and then I hope to have a 
volume of some worth — and which those 
people will relish who cannot bear the 
burthen of a long poem. In my journal I 
intend to copy the poems I write the days 
they are written — There is just room, I 
see, in this page to copy a little thing I 
wrote off to some Music as it was playing — 

['I had a dove and the sweet dove died,' p. 
125]. 

Sunday [January 3]. 

I have been dining with Dilke to-day — 
He is up to his Ears in Walpole's letters. 
Mr. IManker is there, and I have come 
round to see if I can conjure up anything 
for you. Kirkman came down to see me 
this morning — his family has been very 
badly off lately. He told me of a villain- 
ous trick of his Uncle William in Newgate 
Street, who became sole Creditor to his 
father under pretence of serving him, and 
put an execution on his own Sister's goods. 
He went in to the family at Portsmouth ; 
conversed with them, went out and sent in 
the Sherriff's officer. He tells me too of 



abominable behaviour of Archer to Caro- 
line Mathew — Archer has lived nearly at 
the Mathews these two years ; he has been 
amusing Caroline — and now he has written 
a Letter to Mrs. M. declining, on pretence 
of inability to support a wife as he would 
wish, all thoughts of marriage. What is 
the worst is Caroline is 27 years old. It is 
an abominable matter. He has called upon 
me twice lately — I was out both times. 
What can it be for ? — There is a letter 
to-day in the Examiner to the Electors of 
Westminster on Mr. Hobhouse's account. 
In it there is a good character of Cobbett 

— I have not the paper by me or I would 
copy it. I do not think I have mentioned 
the discovery of an African Kingdom — 
the account is much the same as the first 
accounts of Mexico — all magnificence — 
There is a Book being written about it. I 
will read it and give you the cream in my 
next. The romance we have heard upon it 
runs thus: They have window frames of 
gold — 100,000 infantry — human sacrifices. 
The Gentleman who is the Adventurer has 
his wife with him — she, I am told, is a 
beautiful little sylphid woman — her hus- 
band was to have been sacrificed to their 
Gods and was led through a Chamber filled 
with different instruments of torture with 
privilege to choose what death he woidd 
die, without their having a thought of his 
aversion to such a death, they considering 
it a supreme distinction. However he was 
let off, and became a favourite with the 
King, who at last openly patronised him, 
though at first on account of the Jealousy 
of his Ministers he was wont to hold con- 
versations with his Majesty in the dark 
middle of the night. All this sounds a 
little Bluebeardish — but I hope it is true. 
There is another thing I must mention of 
the momentqus kind ; — but I must mind 
my periods in it — Mrs. Dilke has two Cats 

— a Mother and a Daughter — now the 
Mother is a tabby and the daughter a black 
and white like the spotted child. Now it 
appears to me, for the doors of both houses 



348 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



are opened frequently, so that there is a 
complete thoroughfare for both Cats (there 
being no board up to the contrary), they 
may one and several of them come into my 
room ad libitum. But no — the Tabby 
only comes — whether from sympathy for 
Ann the Maid or me I cannot tell — or 
whether Brown has left behind him any 
atmospheric spirit of Maidenhood I cannot 
tell. The Cat is not an old Maid her- 
self — her daughter is a proof of it — I 
have questioned her — I have look'd at the 
lines of her paw — I have felt her pulse — 
to no purpose. Why should the old Cat 
come to me ? I ask myself — and myself 
has not a word to answer. It may come to 
light some day ; if it does you shall hear 
of it. 

Kirkman this morning promised to write 
a few lines to you and send them to Has- 
1am. 1 do not think I have anything to 
say in the Business way. You will let me 
know what you would wish done with your 
property in England — what things you 
would wish sent out — But I am quite in 
the dark about what you are doing — If I 
do not hear soon I shall put on my wings 
and be after you. I will in my next, and 
after I have seen your next letter, tell you 
my own particular idea of America. Your 
next letter will be the key by which I shall 
open your hearts and see what spaces want 
filling with any particular information — 
Whether the afPairs of Europe are more 
or less interesting to you — whether you 
would like to hear of the Theatres — of 
the bear Garden — of the Boxers — the 
Painters, the Lectures — the Dress — The 
progress of Dandyism — The Progress of 
Courtship — or the fate of Mary Millar — 
being a fnll, true, and tr^s particular ac- 
count of Miss M.'s ten Suitors — How the 
first tried the effect of swearing; the second 
of stammering; the third of whispering; — 
the fourth of sonnets — the fifth of Spanish 
leather boots, — the sixth of flattering her 
body — the seventh of flattering her mind 
— the eighth of flattering himself — the 



ninth stuck to the Mother — the tenth 
kissed the Chambermaid and told her to 
tell her Mistress — But he was soon dis- 
charged, his reading led him into an error; 
he could not sport the Sir Lucius to any 
advantage. And now for this time I bid 
you good-bye — I have been thinking of 
these sheets so long that I appear in closing 
them to take my leave of you — but that is 
not it — I shall immediately as I send this 
off begin my journal — when some days I 
shall write no more than 10 lines and 
others 10 times as much. Mrs. Dilke is 
knocking at the wall for Tea is ready — I 
will tell you what sort of a tea it is and 
then bid you Good-bye. 

[January 4]. 

This is Monday morning — nothing par- 
ticular happened yesterday evening, except 
that when the tray came up Mrs. Dilke and 
I had a battle with celery stalks — she 
sends her love to you. I shall close this 
and send it immediately to Haslam — 
remaining ever, My dearest brother and 
sister. 

Your most affectionate Brother John. 



82. TO RICHARD WOODHOUSE 

Wentworth Place, Friday Morn 
[December 18, 1818]. 

My dear Woodhouse — I am greatly 
obliged to you. I must needs feel flattered 
by making an impression on a set of ladies. 
I should be content to do so by mere- 
tricious romance verse, if they alone, and 
not men, were to judge. I should like 
very much to know those ladies — though 
look here, Woodhouse — I have a new leaf 
to turn over: I must work; I must read; I 
must write. I am unable to afford time 
for new acquaintances. I am scarcely able 
to do my duty to those I have. Leave the 
matter to chance. But do not forget to 
give my remembrances to your cousin. 

Yours most sincerely John Keats. 



TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 



349 



83. 



TO MRS, REYNOLDS 



Wentworth Place, Tuesd. 
[December 22, 1818]. 

My dear Mrs. Reynolds — When I 
left you yesterday, 't was with the eonvic- 
tioQ that you thought I had received no 
previous invitation for Christmas day : the 
truth is I had, and had accepted it under 
the conviction that I should be in Hamp- 
shire at the time: else believe me I should 
not have done so, but kept in Mind my old 
friends. I will not speak of the propor- 
tion of pleasure I may receive at different 
Houses — that never enters my head — 
you may take for a truth that I would have 
given up even what I did see to be a 
greater pleasure, for the sake of old ac- 
quaintanceship — time is nothing — two 
years are as long as twenty. 

Yours faithfully Jou^ Keats. 

84. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 

Wentworth Place, Tuesday 
[December 22, 1818]. 

My dear Haydon — Upon my Soul I 
never felt your going out of the room at 
all — and believe me I never rhodomon- 
tade anywhere but in your Company — my 
general Life in Society is silence. 1 feel 
in myself all the vices of a Poet, irritabil- 
ity, love of effect and admiration — and 
influenced by such devils I may at times 
say more ridiculous things than I am aware 
of — but I will put a stop to that in a man- 
ner I have long resolved upon — I will buy 
a gold ring and put it on my finger — and 
from that time a Man of superior head 
shall never have occasion to pity me, or 
one of inferior Nunskull to chuckle at me. 
I am certainlj- more for greatness in a 
shade than in the open day — I am speak- 
ing as a mortal — I should say I value 
more the privilege of seeing great things in 
lonoliness than the fame of a Prophet. Yet 
here I am sinning — so I will turn to a 
vhing I have thought on more — I mean 
jour means till your picture be finished: 



not only now but for this year and half 
have I thought of it. Believe me Haydon 
I have that sort of fire in my heart that 
would sacrifice everything I have to your 
service — I speak without any reserve — I 
know you would do so for me — I open my 
heart to you in a few words. I will do this 
sooner than you shall be distressed: but let 
me be the last stay — Ask the rich lovers 
of Art first — I '11 tell you why — I have a 
little money which may enable me to study, 
and to travel for three or four years. I 
never expect to get anything by my Books: 
and moreover I wish to avoid publishing — 
I admire Human Nature but I do not like 
Men. I should like to compose things 
honourable to Man — but not fingerable over 
by Meti. So I am anxious to exist without 
troubling the printer's devil or drawing 
upon Men's or Women's admiration — in 
which great solitude I hope God will give 
me strength to rejoice. Try the long 
purses — but do not sell your drawings or 
I shall consider it a breach of friendship. 
I am sorry I was not at home when Salmon 
[Haj'don's servant] called. Do write and 
let me know all your present whys and 
wherefores. 

Yours most faithfully John Keats. 

85. TO JOHN TAYLOR 

Wentworth Place, [December 24, 1818]. 

My dear Taylor — Can you lend me 
£30 for a short time ? Ten I want for my- 
self — and twenty for a friend — which will 
be repaid me by the middle of next month. 
I shall go to Chichester on Wednesday and 
perhaps stay a fortnight — I am afraid I 
shall not be able to dine with you before 
I return. Remember me to Woodliouse. 

Yours sincerely John Keats. 

86. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 

Wentworth Place, [December 27, 1818]. 
My dear Haydon — I had an engage- 
ment to-day — and it is so fine a morning 



35° 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



that I caunot put it off — I will be with 
you to-morrow — when we mil thank the 
Gods, though you have bad eyes and I am 
idle. 

I regret more than anything the not 
being able to dine with you to-day. I have 
had several movements that way — but 
then I should disappoint one who has been 
my true friend. I will be with you to- 
morrow morning and stop all day — we 
will hate the profane vulgar and make us 
Wings. 

God bless you. J. Keats. 

87. TO FANNY KEATS 

Wentworth Place, Wednesday 
[December 30, 1818]. 

My dear Fanny — I am confined at 
Hampstead with a sore throat; but I do 
not expect it will keep me above two or 
three days. I intended to have been in 
Town yesterday but feel obliged to be 
careful a little while. I am in general so 
careless of these trifles, that they tease me 
for Months, when a few days' care is all 
that is necessary. I shall not neglect any 
chance of an endeavour to let you return 
to School — nor to procure you a Visit to 
Mrs. Dilke's which T have great fears about. 
Write me if you can find time — and also 
get a few lines ready for George as the 
Post sails next Wednesday. 

Your affectionate Brother John . 

88. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 

Wentworth Place, Monday Aft. 
[January 4, 1819]. 
My dear Haydon — I have been out 
this morning, and did not therefore see 
your note till this minute, or I would have 
gone to town directly — it is now too late 
for to-day. I will be in town early to- 
morrow, and trust I shall be able to lend 
you assistance noon or night. I was struck 
with the improvement in the architectural 
part of your Pictui'e — and, now I think on 



it, I cannot help wondering you should have 
had it so poor, especially after the Solomon. 
Excuse this dry bones of a note : for though 
my pen may grow cold, I should be sorry 
my Life should freeze — 

Your affectionate friend John Keats. 

89. TO THE SAME 

Wentworth Place, 
[between January 7 and 14, 1819], 

My dear Haydon — We are very un- 
lucky — I should have stopped to dine with 
you, but I knew I should not have been 
able to leave you in time for my plaguy 
sore throat; which is getting well. 

I shall have a little trouble in procuring 
the Money and a great ordeal to go through 
— no trouble indeed to any one else — or 
ordeal either. I mean I shall have to go 
to town some thrice, and stand in the Bank 
an hour or two — ■ to me worse than any- 
thing in Dante — I should have less chance 
with the people around me than Orpheus 
had with the Stones. I have been writing 
a little now and then lately: but nothing 
to speak of — being discontented and as 
it were moulting. Yet I do not think I 
shall ever come to the rope or the Pistol, 
for after a day or two's melancholy, al- 
though I smoke more and more my own 
insufficiency — I see by little and little 
more of what is to be done, and how it is to 
be done, should I ever be able to do it. 
On my soul, there should be some reward 
for that continual agonie ennuyeuse. I was 
thinking of going into Hampshire for a few 
days. I have been delaying it longer than 
I intended. You shall see me soon; and 
do not be at all anxious, for this time I 
really will do, what I never did before in 
my life, business in good time, and pro- 
perly. — With respect to the Bond — it 
may be a satisfaction to you to let me have 
it: but as you love me do not let there be 
any mention of interest, although we are 
mortal men — and bind ourselves for fear 
of death. 

Yours for ever John Keats. 



TO C. W. DILKE AND MRS. DILKE 



351 



90. TO THE SAME 

Wentworth Place, [January 1819]. 

My dear Haydon — My throat has not 
suffered me yet to expose myself to the 
night air : however I have been to town in 
the day time — have had several interviews 
with my guardian — have written him 
rather a plain-spoken Letter — which has 
had its effect; and he now seems inclined 
to put no stumbling-block in my way: so 
that I see a good prospect of performing 
my promise. What I should have lent you 
ere this if I could have got it, was belong- 
ing to poor Tom — and the difficulty is 
whether I am to inherit it before my Sister 
is of age; a period of six years. Should it 
be so I must incontinently take to Cordu- 
roy Trousers. But I am nearly confident 
't is all a Bam. I shall see you soon — but 
do let me have a line to-day or to-morrow 
concerning your health and spirits. 

Your sincere friend John Keats. 

91. TO FANNY KEATS 

Wentworth Place, [January 1819]. 

My dear Fanny — I send this to Wal- 
thamstow for fear you should not be at 
Paneras Lane when I call to-morrow — be- 
fore going into Hampshire for a few days 
— I will not be more I assure you — You 
may think how disappointed I am in not 
being able to see you more and spend more 
time with you than I do — but how can 
it be helped ? The thought is a contin- 
ual vexation to me — and often hinders me 
from reading and composing — Write to 
me as often as you can — and believe me, 

Your affectionate Brother John . 

92. TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE AND 
MRS. DILKE, FROM CHARLES ARMITAGE 
BROWN AND KEATS * 

Bedhampton, 24 January 1819. 
Dear Dilke, — This letter is for your 
Wife, and if you are a Gentleman, you will 

* Keats's portion of this letter is printed in 
Italic, but this does not apply to the italicized 



deliver it to her, without reading one word 
further, ^read thou Squire. There is a 
wager depending on this. 

My charming dear mrs. Dilke, — It 
was delightful to receive a letter from yoi^ 
— but such a letter ! what presumption in 
me to attempt to answer it ! Where shall 
I find, in my poor brain, such jibes, such 
jeers, such flashes of merriment ? Alas ! 
you Avill say, as you read me, Alas ! poor 
Browai ! quite chop fallen ! But that 's 
not true; my chops have been beautifully 
plumped out since 1 came here : my 
dinners have been good & nourishing & 
my inside never washed by a red herring 
broth. Then my mind has been so happy ! 
I have been smiled on by the fair ones, 
the Lacy's, the Prices, & the MuUings's, 
but not by the Richards's ; Old Dicky has 
not called here during my visit, — I have 
not seen him ; the whole of the family are 
shuffling to carriage folks for acquaintances, 
cutting their old friends, and dealing out 
pride & folly, while we allow they have 
got the odd trick, but dispute their honours. 
I was determined to be beforehand with 
them, & behaved cavalierly & neglectingly 
to the family, & passed the girls in Havant 
with a slight bow. — Keats is much better, 
owing to a strict forbearance from a third 
glass of wine. He & I walked from Chi- 
cester yesterday, we were here at 3, but 
the Dinner was finished ; a brace of 
Muir fowl had been dressed; I ate a piece 
of the breast cold, & it was not tainted ; I 
dared not venture further. Mr. Snook was 
nearly turned sick by being merely asked 
to take a mouthful. The other brace was 
so high, that the cook declined preparing 
them for the spit, & they were thrown away. 
I see your husband declared them to be in 
excellent order ; I supposed he enjoyed 
them in a disgusting manner, — sucking 
the rotten flesh off the bones, & crunching 
the putrid bones. Did you eat any ? I 
hope not, for an ooman should be delicate 

words in the second paragraph designed by 
Brown to make his joke perfectly clear. 



352 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



in her food. — O you Jezabel ! to sit quietly 
iu your room, while the thieves were ran- 
sacking my house ! No doubt poor Ann's 
throat was cut ; has the Coroner sat on her 
yet ? — Mrs. Snook says she knows how to 
hold a pen very well, & wants no lessons 
from me; only think of the vanity of the 
ooman ! She tells me to make honourable 
mention of your letter which she received 
at Breakfast time, but how can I do so ? 
I have not read it ; & I '11 lay my life it is 
not a tenth part so good as mine, — pshaw 
on your letter to her ! — On Tuesday night 
I think you '11 see me. In the mean time 
I '11 not say a word about spasms in the 
way of my profession, tho' as your friend 
I must profess myself very sorry. Keats 
& I are going to call on Mr. Butler & 
Mr. Burton this morning, and tomorrow 
we shall go to Sanstead to see Mr. Way's 
Chapel consecrated by the two Big-wigs 
of Gloucester & St. Davids. If that vile 
Carver & Gilder does not do me justice, 
I '11 annoy him all his life with legal 
expenses at every quarter, if my rent is 
not sent to the day, & that will not be 
revenge enough for the trouble & con- 
fusion he has put me to. — Mrs. Dilke is 
remarkably well for Mrs. Dilke in winter. 

— Have you heard anything of John Blag- 
den; he is off ! want of business has made 
him play the fool, — I am sorry — that 
Brown and you are getting so very loitty — 
my modest feathered Pen frizzles like baby 
roast beef at making its entrance among such 
tantrum sentences — or rather ten senses. 
Brown super or supper sir named the Sleek 
has been getting thinner a little by pining op- 
posite Miss Muggins — (Broion says Mullins 
but I beg to differ from him) — we sit it out 
till ten 0* clock — Miss M. has persuaded, 
Brown to shave his whiskers — he came down 
to Breakfast like the sign of the full Moon — 
his Profile is quite alter'd. He looks more like 
an ooman than I ever could think it possible 

— and on putting on Mrs. D.'s calash the de- 
ception was complete especially as his voice is 



trebled by making love in the draught of a 
doorway. I too am metamorphosed — o young 
ooman here in Bed — hampton has over per- 
suaded me to wear my shirt collar up to my 
eyes. Mrs. Snook I catch smoaking it every 
now and then and I believe Brown does but I 
cannot now look sideways. Brown wants to 
scribble more so I will finish with a marginal 
note — Viz. Remember me to Wentworth 
Place and Elm Cottage — not forgetting 
Millamant — 
. Your^s if possible J. Keats. 

This is abominable ! I did but go up- 1 
stairs to put on a clean & starched hand- 
kerchief, & that overweening rogue read 
my letter & scrawled over one of my sheets, 
and given him a counterpain, — I wish I i 
could blank-it all over and beat him with a 

\_certain rod, & have a fresh one bolstered 
up. Ah ! he may dress me as he likes but he 

rk be-\ 

shan't tic\Jcle me piljlow the feathers, — 1 
would not give a tester for such puns, let 
us ope broivn (erratum — a large B — a 
Bumble B.) toill go no further in the Bedroom 
& not call Mat Snook a relation to Matt- 
rass — This is grown to a conclusion — / had 
excellent puns in my head but one bad one 
from Brown has quite upset me but I am 
quite set-up for more, but I 'm content to 
be conqueror. 

Your's in love. Chas. Brown. 

N. B. / beg leaf (sic) to withdraw all my 
puns — they are all wash, an base uns. 

93. TO FANNY KEATS 

Wentworth Place, Feby- [11,1819]. Thursday. 
My DEAR Fanny — Your Letter to me 
at Bedhampton hurt me very much, — 
What objection can there be to your re- 
ceiving a Letter from me ? At Bedhamp- 
ton I was unwell and did not go out of the 
Garden Gate but twice or thrice during 
the fortnight I was there — Since I came 
back I have been taking care of myself — 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



353 



I have been obliged to do so, and am now 
in hopes that by this care I shall get rid 
of a sore throat which has haunted me at 
intervals nearly a twelvemonth. I had al- 
ways a presentiment of not being able to 
succeed in persuading Mr. Abbey to let 
you remain longer at School — I am very 
sorry that he will not consent. I recom- 
mend you to keep up all that you know and 
to learn more by yourself however little. 
The time will come when you will be more 
pleased with Life — look forward to that 
time and, though it may appear a trifle be 
careful not to let the idle and retired Life 
you lead fix any awkward habit or be- 
haviour on you — whether you sit or walk 
endeavour to let it be in a seemly and if 
possible a graceful manner. We have been 
very little together : but you have not the 
less been with me in thought. You have 
no one in the w^orld besides me who would 
sacrifice anything for you — I feel myself 
the only Protector you have. In all your 
little troubles think of me with the thought 
that there is at least one person in England 
who if he could would help you out of 
them — I live in hopes of being able to 
make you happy. — I should not perhaps 
write in this manner, if it were not for the 
fear of not being able to see you often or 
long together. I am in hopes Mr. Abbey 
will not object any more to your receiving 
a letter now and then from me. How un- 
reasonable ! I want a few more lines from 
you for George — there are some young 
Men, acquaintances of a Schoolfellow of 
mine, going out to Birkbeck's at the latter 
end of this Month — I am in expectation 
every day of hearing from George — I 
begin to fear his last letters miscarried. I 
shall be in town to-morrow — if you should 
not be in town, I shall send this little parcel 
by the Walthamstow Coach — I think you 
will like Goldsmith — Write me soon — 

Your affectionate Brother John . 

; Mrs. Dilke has not been very well — she 
is gone a walk to town to-day for exer- 
cise. 



94. TO GEORGE AND GEOKGIANA KEATS 

Sunday Morn= February 14, [1818]. 
My dear Brother and Sister — How 
is it that we have not heard from you from 
the Settlement yet ? The letters must 
surely have miscarried. 'I am in expecta- 
tion every day. Peachey wrote me a few 
days ago, saying some more acquaintances 
of his were preparing to set out for Birk- 
beck; therefore I shall take the opportunity 
of sending you wliat I can muster in a 
sheet or two. I am still at Wentworth 
Place — indeed, I have kept indoors lately, 
resolved if possible to rid myself of my 
sore throat ; consequently I have not been 
to see your Mother siuce my return from 
Chichester ; but my absence from her has 
been a great weight upon me. I say since 
my return from Chichester — I believe I 
told you I was going thither. I was near- 
ly a fortnight at Mr. John Snook's and a 
few days at old Mr. Dilke's. Notliiug 
worth speaking of happened at either place. 
I took down some thin paper and wrote on 
it a little poem called St. Agnes's Eve, 
which you shall have as it is when I have 
finished the blank part of the rest for you. 
I went out twice at Chichester to dowager 
Card parties. I see very little now, and 
very few persons, being almost tired of 
men and things. Brown and Dilke are 
very kind and considerate towards me. 
The Miss R.'s have been stopping next door 
lately, but are very dull. Miss Brawne 
and I have every now and then a chat and 
a tiff. Brown and Dilke are walking 
round their garden, hands in pockets, mak- 
ing observations. The literary world I 
know nothing about. There is a poem 
from Rogers dead born ; and another 
satire is expected from Byron, called " Don 
Giovanni." Yesterday I went to town for 
the first time for these three weeks. I met 
people from all parts and of all sets — Mr. 
Towers, one of the Holts, Mr. Dominie 
Williams, Mr. Woodhouse, Mrs. Hazlitt 
and son, Mrs. Webb, and Mrs. Septimus 



354 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



Brown. Mr. Woodhouse was looking up 
at a book window in Newgate Street, and, 
being short-sighted, twisted his muscles 
into so queer a stage that I stood by in 
doubt whether it was him or his brother, if 
he has one, and turning round, saw Mrs. 
Hazlitt, with that little Nero, her son. 
Woodhouse, on his features subsiding, 
proved to be Woodhouse, and not his 
brother. I have had a little business with 
Mr. Abbey from time to time ; he has 
behaved to me with a little Brusquerie : 
this hurt me a little, especially when I 
knew him to be the only man in England 
who dared to say a thing to me I did not 
approve of without its being resented, or 
at least noticed — so I wrote him about 
it, and have made an alteration in my 
favour — I expect from this to see more of 
Fanny, who has been quite shut out from 
me. I see Cobbett has been attacking the 
Settlement, but I cannot tell what to be- 
lieve, and shall be all out at elbows till I 
hear from you. I am invited to Miss Mil- 
ler's birthday dance on the 19th — I am 
nearly sure I shall not be able to go. A 
dance would injure my throat very much. 
I see very little of Reynolds. Hunt, I 
hear, is going on very badly — I mean in 
money matters. I shall not be surprised 
to hear of the worst. Haydon too, in con- 
sequence of his eyes, is out at elbows. 
I live as prudently as it is possible for me 
to do. I have not seen Haslam lately. I 
have not seen Richards for this half year. 
Rice for three months, or Charles Cowden 
Clarke for God knows when. 

When I last called in Henrietta Street ^'' 
Miss Millar was very unwell, and Miss 
Waldegrave as staid and self-possessed as 
usual. Henry was well. There are two 
new tragedies — one by the apostate Maw, 
and one by Miss Jane Porter. Next week 
I am going to stop at Taylor's for a few 
days, when I will see them both and tell 
you what they are. Mr. and Mrs. Bentley 
are well, and all the young carrots. I said 
nothing of consequence passed at Snooks's 



— no more than this — that I like the 
family very much. Mr. and Mrs. Snooks 
were very kind. We used to have a little 
religion and politics together almost every 
evening, — and sometimes about you. He 
proposed writing out for me his experience 
in farming, for me to send to you. If I 
should have an opportunity of talking to 
him about it, I will get all 1 can at all 
events ; but you may say in your answer to 
this what value you place upon such in- 
formation. I have not seen Mr. Lewis 
lately, for I have shrunk from going up 
the hill. Mr. Lewis went a few mornings 
ago to town with Mrs. Brawne. They 
talked about me, and I heard that Mr. L. 
said a thing I am not at all contented with. 
Says he, ' O, he is quite the little poet.' 
Now this is abominable — You might as 
well say Buonaparte is quite the little 
soldier. You see what it is to be under six 
foot and not a lord. There is a long fuzz 
to-day in the Examiner about a young man 
who delighted a young woman with a 
valentine — I think it must be Ollier's. 
Brown and I are thinking of passing the 
summer at Brussels — If we do, we shall 
go about the first of May. We — i. e. 
Brown and I — sit opposite one another 
all day authorizing (N. B., an ' s ' instead 
of a 'z' would give a different meaning). 
He is at present writing a story of an old 
woman who lived in a forest, and to whom 
the Devil or one of his aides-de-feu came 
one night very late and in disguise. The 
old dame sets before him pudding after 
pudding — mess after mess — which he de- 
vours, and moreover casts his eyes up at 
a side of Bacon hanging over his head, and 
at the same time asks if her Cat is a^Rab- 
bit. On going he leaves her three pips 
of Eve's Apple, and somehow she, having 
lived a virgin all her life, begins to repent 
of it, and wished herself beautiful enough 
to make all the world and even the other 
world fall in love with her. So it hap- 
pens, she sets out from her smoky cottage 
in magnificent apparel. — The first City 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



355 



she enters, every one falls in love with her, 
from the Prince to the Blacksmith. A 
young gentleman on his way to the Church 
to be married leaves his unfortunate Bride 
and follows this nonsuch — A whole regi- 
ment of soldiers are smitten at once and 
follow her — A whole convent of Monks in 
Corpus Christi procession join the soldiers. 
The mayor and corporation follow the 
same road — Old and young, deaf and 
dumb, — all but the blind, — are smitten, 
and form an immense concourse of people, 

who what Brown will do with them I 

know not. The devil himself falls in love 
with her, flies away with her to a desert 
place, in consequence of which she lays an 
infinite number of eggs — the eggs being- 
hatched from time to time, fill the world 
with many nuisances, such as John Knox, 
George Fox, Johanna Southcote, and Gif- 
ford. 

There have been within a fortnight eight 
failures of the highest consequence in Lon- 
don. Brown went a few evenings since 
to Davenport's, and on his coming in he 
talked about bad news in the city with such 
a face I began to think of a national bank- 
ruptcy. I did not feel much surprised and 
was rather disappointed. Carlisle, a book- 
seller on the Hone principle, has been 
issuing pamphlets from his shop in Fleet 
Street called the Deist. He was conveyed 
to Newgate last Thursday ; he intends 
making his own defence. I was surprised 
to hear from Taylor the amount of money 
of the bookseller's last sale. What think 
you of £25,000 ? He sold 4000 copies of 
Lord Byron. I am sitting opposite the 
Shakspeare I brought from the Isle of 
Wight — and I never look at him but the 
silk tassels ** on it give me as much plea- 
sure as the face of the poet itself. 

In my next packet, as this is one by the 
way, I shall send you the Pot of Basil, St. 
Agnes Eve, and if I should have finished 
it, a little thing called the Eve of St. Mark. 
You see what fine Mother Radcliff names 



I have — it is not my fault — I do not 
search for them. I have not gone on with 
Hyperion — for to tell the truth I have not 
been in great cue for writing lately — I must 
wait for the spring to rouse me up a little. 
The only time I went out from Bedhamp- 
tou was to see a chapel consecrated — 
Brown, I, and John Snook the boy, went 
in a chaise behind a leaden horse. Brown 
drove, but the horse did not mind him. 
This chapel is built by a Mr. Way, a great 
Jew converter, who in that line has spent 
one hundred thousand pounds. He main- 
tains a great number of poor Jews — Of 
course his communion plate loas stolen. He 
spoke to the clerk about it — The clerk 
said he was very sorry, adding, '/ dare 
shay, your honour, it 's among ush.' 

The chapel is built in Mr. Way's park. 
The consecration was not amusing. There 
were numbers of carriages — and his house 
crammed with clergy — They sanctified the 
Chapel, and it being a wet day, consecrated 
the burial-ground through the vestry win- 
dow. I begin to hate parsons ; they did 
not make me love them that day when I 
saw them in their proper colours. A par- 
son is a Lamb in a drawing-room, and a 
Lion in a vestry. The notions of Society 
will not permit a parson to give way to his 
temper in any shape — So he festers in 
himself — his features get a peculiar, dia- 
bolical, self sufficient, iron stupid expres- 
sion. He is continually acting — his mind 
is against every man, and every man's 
mind is against him — He is a hypocrite to 
the Believer and a coward to the unbeliever 
— He must be either a knave or an idiot — 
and there is no man so much to be pit- 
ied as an idiot parson. The soldier who 
is cheated into an Esprit du Corps by a 
red coat, a band, and colours, for the pur- 
pose of nothing, is not half so pitiable as 
the parson who is led by the nose by the 
Bench of Bishops and is smothered in ab- 
surdities — a poor necessary subaltern of 
the Church. 



35^ 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



Friday, Feb''- 18. 
The day before yesterday I went to 
Romney Street — your Mother was not at 
home — but I have just written her that I 
shall see her on Wednesday. I call'd on Mr. 
Lewis this morning — he is very well — 
and tells me not to be uneasy about Let- 
ters, the chances being so arbitrary. He 
is going on as usual among his favourite 
democrat papers. We had a chat as usual 
about Cobbett and the Westminster elec- 
tors. Dilke has lately been very much 
harrassed about the manner of educating 
his son — he at length decided for a public 
school — and then he did not know what 
school — he at last has decided for West- 
minster ; and as Charley is to be a day 
boy, Dilke will remove to Westminster. 
We lead very quiet lives here — Dilke is 
at present in Greek histories and anti- 
quities, and talks of nothing but the elec- 
tors of Westminster and the retreat of 
the ten - thousand. I never drink now 
above three glasses of wine — and never 
any spirits and water. Though by the 
bye, the other day Woodhouse took me to 
his coffee house and ordered a Bottle of 
Claret — now I like Claret, whenever I 
can have Claret I must drink it, — 't is the 
only palate affair that I am at all sensual 
in. Would it not be a good speck to send 
you some vine roots — could it be done ? 
I '11 enquire — If you could make some 
wine like Claret to drink on summer even- 
ings in an arbour ! For really 't is so fine — 
it fills one's mouth with a gushing fresh- 
ness — then goes down cool and feverless 
— then you do not feel it quarrelling with 
your liver — no, it is rather a Peacemaker, 
and lies as quiet as it did in the grape ; 
then it is as fragrant as the Queen Bee, 
and the more ethereal Part of it mounts 
into the brain, not assaulting the cerebral 
apartments like a bully in a bad-house 
looking for his trull and hurrying from 
door to door bouncing against the wainst- 
coat, but rather walks like Aladdin about 
his own enchanted palace so gently that 



you do not feel his step. Other wines of 
a heavy and spirituous nature transform 
a Man to a Sileuus : this makes him a 
Hermes — and gives a Woman the soul and 
immortality of Ariadne, for whom Bacchus 
always kept a good cellar of claret — and 
even of that he could never persuade her to 
take above two cups. I said this same 
claret is tlie only palate-passion I have — 
I forgot game — I must plead guilty to 
the breast of a Partridge, the back of a 
hare, the backbone of a grouse, the wing 
and side of a Pheasant and a Woodcock 
passim. Talking of game (I wish I could 
make it), the Lady whom I met at Hast- 
ings and of whom I said something in my 
last I think has lately made me many pre- 
sents of game, and enabled me to make as 
many. She made me take home a Pheas- 
ant the other day, which I gave to Mrs. 
Dilke ; on which to-morrow Rice, Reynolds 
and the Wentworthians will dine next door. 
The next I intend for your Mother. These 
moderate sheets of paper are much more 
pleasant to write upon than those large thin 
sheets which I hope you by this time have 
received — though that can't be, now I 
think of it. I have not said in any Letter 
yet a word about my affairs — in a word I 
am in no despair about them — my poem 
has not at all succeeded ; in the course of 
a year or so I think I shall try the public 
again — in a selfish point of view I should 
suffer my pride and my contempt of public 
opinion to hold me silent — but for yours 
and Fanny's sake I will pluck up a spirit 
and try again. I have no doubt of success 
in a course of years if I persevere — but 
it must be patience, for the Reviews have 
enervated and made indolent men's minds 
— few think for themselves. These Re- 
views too are getting more and more 
powerful, especially the Quarterly — they 
are like a superstition which the more 
it prostrates the Crowd and the longer it 
continues the more powerful it becomes 
just in proportion to their increasing weak- 
ness. I was in hopes that when people saw, 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



357 



as they must do uow, all the trickery and 
iniquity of these Plagues they would scout 
them, but no, they are like the spectators 
at the Westminster cock-pit — they like 
the battle and do not care who wins or who 
loses. Brown is going on this morning 
with the story of his old woman and the 
Devil — He makes but slow progress — 
The fact is it is a Libel on the Devil, and 
as that person is Brown's Muse, look ye, if 
he libels his own Muse how can he expect 
to write ? Either Brown or his Muse must 
turn tail. Yesterday was Charley Dilke's 
birthday. Brown and I were invited to 
tea. During the evening nothing passed 
worth notice but a little conversation be- 
tween Mrs. Dilke and Mrs. Brawne. The 
subject was the Watchman. It was ten 
o'clock, and Mrs. Brawne, who lived during 
the summer in Brown's house and now lives 
in the Road, recognized her old Watch- 
man's voice, and said that he came as far 
as her now. ' Indeed,' said Mrs. D., 
' does he turn the Corner ? ' There have 
been some letters passed between me and 
\ Haslam but I have not seen him lately. 
The day before yesterday — which I made 
a day of Business — I called upon him — 
he was out as usual. Brown has been 
walking up and down the room a-breeding 
— now at this moment he is being de- 
livered of a couplet, and I daresay will be 
as well as can be expected. Gracious — he 
has twins ! 

I have a long story to tell you about 

Bailey — I will say first the circumstances 

as plainly and as well as I can remember, 

and then I will make my comment. You 

know that Bailey was very much cut up 

about a little Jilt in the country somewhere. 

I thought he was in a dying state about it 

i when at Oxford with him: little supposing, 

i as I have since heard, that he was at that 

i very time making impatient Love to Marian 

il Reynolds — and guess my astonishment at 

hearing after this that he had been trying 

at Miss Martin. So Matters have been — 

i So Matters stood — when he got ordained 



and went to a Curacy near Carlisle, where 
the family of the Gleigs reside. There his 
susceptible heart was conquered by Miss 
Gleig — and thereby all his connections in 
town have been annulled — both male and 
female. I do not now remember clearly 
the facts — These however I know — He 
showed his correspondence with Marian to 
Gleig, returned all her Letters and asked 
for his own — he also wrote very abrupt 
Letters to Mrs. Reynolds. I do not know 
any more of the Martin affair than I have 
written above. No doubt his conduct has 
been very bad. The great thing to be con- 
sidered is — whether it is want of delicacy 
and principle or want of knowledge and 
polite experience. And again weakness — 
yes, that is it ; and the want of a Wife — 
yes, that is it; and then Marian made great 
Bones of him although her Mother and 
sister have teased her very much about it. 
Her conduct has been very upright through- 
out the whole affair — She liked Bailey as 
a Brother but not as a Husband — espe- 
cially as he used to woo her with the Bible 
and Jeremy Taylor under his arm — they 
walked iu no grove but Jeremy Taylor's. 
Marian's obstinacy is some excuse, but his 
so quickly taking to Miss Gleig can have 
no excuse — except that of a Ploughman 
who wants a wife. The thing which sways 
me more against him than anything else is 
Rice's conduct on the occasion; Rice would 
not make an immature resolve : he was 
ardent in his friendship for Bailey, he ex- 
amined the whole for and against minutely; 
and he has abandoned Bailey entirely. All 
this I am not supposed by the Reynoldses 
to have any hint of. It will be a good 
lesson to the Mother and Daughters — 
nothing would serve but Bailey. If you 
mentioned the word Tea-pot some one of 
them came out with an k propros about 
Bailey — noble fellow — fine fellow ! was 
always in their mouths — This may teach 
them that the man who ridicules romance 
is the most romantic of Men — that he who 
abuses women and slights them loves them 



3S8 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



the most — that he who talks of roasting 
a Man alive would not do it when it came 
to the push — and above all, that they are 
very shallow people who take everything 
literally. A Man's life of any worth is a 
continual allegory, and very few eyes can 
see the Mystery of his life — a life like the 
scriptures, figurative — which such people 
can no more make out than they can the 
Hebrew Bible. Lord Byron cuts a figure 
but he is not figurative — Shakspeare led a 
life of Allegory : his works are the com- 
ments on it — 

March 12, Friday. 
I went to town yesterday chiefly for the 
purpose of seeing some young Men who 
were to take some Letters for us to you — 
through the medium of Peachey. I was 
surprised and disappointed at hearing they 
had changed their minds, and did not pur- 
pose going so far as Birkbeck's. I was 
much disappointed, for I had counted upon 
seeing some persons who were to see you 
— and upon your seeing some who had 
seen me. I have not only lost this oppor- 
tunity, but the sail of the Post-Packet to 
New York or Philadelphia, by which last 
your Brothers have sent some Letters. The 
weather in town yesterday was so stifling 
that I could not remain there though I 
wanted much to see Kean in Hotspur. I 
have by me at present Hazlitt's Letter to 
Gifford — perhaps you would like an ex- 
tract or two from the high-seasoned parts. 
It begins thus : 

' Sir, you have an ugly trick of saying what 
is not true of any one you do not like ; and it 
will be the object of this Letter to cure you of 
it. You say what you please of others ; it is 
time you were told what you .are. In doing 
this give me leave to borrow the familiarity of 
your style : — for the fidelity of the picture I 
shall be answerable. You are a little person 
but a considerable cat's paw; and so far worthy 
of notice. Your clandestine connection with 
persons high in office constantly influences your 
opinions and alone gives importance to them. 
You are the government critic, a character 



nicely differing from that of a government spy 
— the invisible Unk which connects literature 
with the Police.' 

Again : 

' Your employers, Mr. Gifford, do not pay 
their hirelings for nothing — for condescending 
to notice weak and wicked sophistry.; for point- 
ing out to contempt what excites no admira- 
tion ; for cautiously selecting a- few specimens 
of bad taste and bad grammar where nothing 
else is to be found. They Avant your invisible 
pertness, your mercenary malice, your impene- 
trable dulness, your bare-faced impudence, 
your pragmatical self-sufficiency, your hypo- 
critical zeal, your pious f raiids to stand in the 
gap of their Prejudices and pretensions to fly- 
blow and taint public opinion, to defeat inde- 
pendent efforts, to apply not the touch of the 
scorpion but the touch of the Torpedo to youth- 
ful hopes, to crawl and leave the slimy track of 
sophistry and lies over every work that does 
not dedicate its sweet leaves to some Luminary 
of the treasury bench, or is not fostered in the 
hotbed of corruption. This is your office : " this 
is what is look'd for at your hands, and this 
you do not baulk " — to sacrifice what little 
honesty and prostitute what little inteUect you 
possess to any dirty job you are commission'd 
to execute. " They keep you as an ape does an 
apple in the corner of his jaw, first mouth'd to 
be at last swaUow'd." You are by appoint- 
ment literary toadeater to greatness and taster 
to the court. You have a natural aversion to 
whatever differs from your own pretensions, 
and an acquired one for what gives offence to 
your superiors. Your vanity panders to your 
interest, and your maUce truckles only to your 
love of Power. If your instructive or premedi- 
tated abuse of your enviable trust were found 
wanting in a single instance ; if you were to 
make a single slip in getting up your select 
committee of enquiry and green bag report of 
the state of Letters, your occupation would be 
gone. Yoii would never after obtain a squeeze 
of the hand from acquaintance, or a smile from 
a Punk of quality. The great and powerful 
whom you call wise and good do not like to 
have the privacy of their self-love startled by 
the obtrusive and unmanageable claims of Lit- 
erature and Philosophy, except through the 
intervention of people like you, whom, if they 
have common penetration, they soon find out to 
be without any superiority o£ inteUect ; or if 
they do not, whom they can despise for their 
meanness of soul. You " have the office oppo- 
site to Saint Peter." You keep a corner in the 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



359 



public mind for foul prejudice and corrupt 
power to knot and gender in ; you volunteer 
your services to people of quality to ease scruples 
of mind and qualms of conscience ; you lay the 
flattering unction of venal prose and laureU'd 
verse to their souLs. You persuade them that 
there is neither purity of morals, nor depth of 
understanding except in themselves and their 
hangers-on ; and would prevent the unhallow'd 
names of Liberty and humanity from ever be- 
ing whispered in ears polite ! You, sir, do you 
not all this ? I cry you mercy then : I took you 
for the Editor of the Quarterly Review.' 

This is the sort of feu de joie he keeps 
up. There is another extract or two — 
one especially which I will copy to-morrow 
— for the caudles are burnt down and I 
am using the wax taper — which has a long 
snuff on it — the fire is at its last click — I 
am sitting with my back to it with one foot 
rather askew upon the rug and the other 
with the heel a little elevated from the 
carpet — I am writing this on the Maid's 
Tragedy, which I have read since tea with 
great pleasure — Besides this volume of 
Beaumont and Fletcher, there are on the 
table two volumes of Chaucer and a new 
work of Tom Moore's, called Tom Cribb's 
Memorial to Congress — nothing in it. 
These are trifles — but I require nothing 
so much of you but that you will give one 
a like description of yourselves, however it 
may be when you are writing to me. Could 
I see the same thing done of any great 
Man long since dead it would be a great 
delight: as to know in what position Shak- 
speare sat when he began ' To be or not to 
be ' — such things become interesting from 
distance of time or place. I hope you are 
both now in that sweet sleep which no two 
beings deserve more than you do — I must 
fancy so — and please myself in the fancy 
of speaking a prayer and a blessing over 
you and your lives — God bless you — I 
whisper good-night in your ears, and you 
will dream of me. 

March 13, Saturday. 

I have written to Fanny this morning 
and received a note from Haslam. I was 



to have dined with him to-morrow : he 
gives me a bad account of his Father, who 
has not been in Town for five weeks, and 
is not well enough for company. Haslam 
is well — and from the prosperous state 
of some love affair he does not mind the 
double tides he has to work. I have been 
a Walk past west end — and was going to 
call at Mr. Monkhouse's — but I did not, 
not being in the humour. I know not why 
Poetry and I have been so distant lately ; 
I must make some advances soon or she 
will cut me entirely. Hazlitt has this fine 
Passage in his Letter : Gifford in his Re- 
view of Hazlitt's characters of Shakspeare's 
plays attacks the Coriolanus critique. He 
says that Hazlitt has slandered Shakspeare 
in saying that he had a leaning to the arbi- 
trary side of the question. Hazlitt thus 
defends himself, 

' My words are, " Coriolanus is a storehouse of 
political common-places. The Arguments for 
and against aristocracy and democracy on the 
Privileges of the few and the claims of the 
many, on Liberty and slavery, power and the 
abuse of it, peace and war, are here very ably 
handled, with the spirit of a Poet and the 
acuteness of a Philosopher. Shakspeare himself 
seems to have had a leaning to the arbitrary 
side of the question, perhaps from some feeling 
of contempt for his own origin, and to have 
spared no occasion of bating the rabble. What 
he says of them is very true ; what he says of 
their betters is also very true, though he dwells 
less upon it." I then proceed to account for 
this by showing how it is that " the cause of the 
people is but little calculated for a subject for 
poetry; or that the language of Poetry natu- 
rally falls in with the language of power." I 
affirm. Sir, that Poetry, that the imagination 
generally speaking, delights in power, in strong 
excitement, as well as in truth, in good, in right, 
whereas pure reason and the moral sense ap- 
prove only of the true and good. I proceed to 
show that this general love or tendency to im- 
mediate excitement or theatrical effect, no 
matter how produced, gives a Bias to the im- 
agination often consistent with the greatest 
good, that in Poetry it triumphs over principle, 
and bribes the passions to make a sacrifice of 
common humanity. You say that it does not, 
that there is no such original Sin in Poetry, 



360 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



that it makes no such sacrifice or unworthy 
compromise between poetical effect and the 
still small voice of reason. And how do you 
prove that there is no such principle giving a 
bias to the imagination and a false colouring 
to poetry ? Why, by asking in reply to the 
instances where this principle operates, and 
where no other can with much modesty and 
simplicity — " But are these the only topics that 
afford delight in Poetry, etc. ? " No ; but these 
objects do afford delight in poetry, and they 
afford it in proportion to their strong and often 
tragical effect, and not in proportion to the good 
produced, or their desireableness in a moral 
point of view. Do we read with more pleasure 
of the ravages of a beast of prey than of the 
Shepherd's pipe upon the Mountain ? No ; but 
we do read with pleasuie of the ravages of a 
beast of prey, and we do so on the principle I 
have stated, namely, from the sense of power 
abstracted from the sense of good ; and it is the 
same principle that makes us read with admira- 
tion and reconciles us in fact to the triumphant 
progress of the conquerors and mighty Hunters 
of mankind, who come to stop the Shepherd's 
Pipe upon the Mountains and sweep away his 
listening flock. Do you mean to deny that 
there is anything imposing to the imagination 
in power, in grandeur, in outward show, in the 
accumulation of individual wealth and luxviry, 
at the expense of equal justice and the common 
weal ? Do you deny that there is anything in 
the " Pride, Pomp, and Circumstances of glori- 
ous war, that makes ambition virtue" in the 
eyes of admiring multitudes? Is this a new 
theory of the pleasures of the imagination, 
which says that the pleasures of the imagina- 
tion do not take rise solely in the calculation of 
the understanding ? Is it a paradox of my 
creating that " one murder makes a villain, mil- 
lions a Hero " ? or is it not true that here, as in 
other cases, the enormity of the evil overpowers 
and makes a convert of the imagination by its 
very magnitude ? You contradict my reason- 
ing because you know nothing of the question, 
and you think that no one has a right to under- 
stand what you do not. My offence against 
purity in the passage alluded to, "which con- 
tains the concentrated venom of my malignity," 
is that I have admitted that there are tyrants 
and slaves abroad in the world ; and you would 
hush the matter up and pretend that there is 
no such thing in order that there may be no- 
thing else. Further, I have explained the cause, 
the subtle sophistry of the human mind, that 
tolerates and pampers the evil in order to guard 
against its approaches ; you would conceal the 



cause in order to prevent the cure, and to leave 
the proud flesh about the heart to harden and 
ossify into one impenetrable mass of selfishness 
and hypocrisy, that we may not " sympathise in 
the distresses of suffering virtue " in any case in 
which they come in competition with the ficti- 
tious wants and ' ' imputed weaknesses of the 
great." You ask, "Are we gratified by the 
cruelties of Domitian or Nero ? ' ' No, not we — 
they were too petty and cowardly to strike the 
imagination at a distance ; but the Roman 
senate tolerated them, addressed their perpe- 
trators, exalted them into gods, the fathers of 
the people, they had pimps and scribblers of all 
sorts in their pay, their Senecas, etc., till a 
turbulent rabble, thinking there were no in- 
juries to Society greater than the endurance of 
unlimited and wanton oppression, put an end to 
the farce and abated the sin as well as they 
could. Had you and I lived in those times we 
should have been what we are now, I "a sour 
malcontent," and you " a sweet courtier." ' 

The manner in which this is managed : 
the force and innate power with which it 
yeasts and works up itself — the feeling for 
the costume of society ; is in a style of 
genius. He hath a demon, as he himself 
says of Lord Byron. We are to have a 
party this evening. The Davenports from 
Church Row — I don't think you know 
anything of them — they have paid me a 
good deal of attention. I like Davenport 
himself. The names of the rest are Miss 
Barnes, Miss Winter with the Children. 

[Later, March 17 or 18.] 
On Monday we had to dinner Severn 
and Cawthorn, the Bookseller and print- 
virtuoso; in the evening Severn went home 
to paint, and we other three went to the 
play, to see Shell's new tragedy ycleped 
Evadnd. In the morning Severn and I 
took a turn round the Museum — There is 
a Sphinx there of a giant size, and most 
voluptuous Egyptian expression, I had not 
seen it before. The play was bad even in 
comparison with 1818, the Augustan age of 
the Drama, 'comme on sait,' as Voltaire 
says — the whole was made up of a virtu- 
ous young woman, an indignant brother, a 
suspecting lover, a libertine prince, a gra- 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



361 



tiiitous villain, a street in Naples, a Cypress 
grove, lilies and roses, virtue and vice, a 
bloody sword, a S23augled jacket, one Lady 
Olivia, one Miss O'Neil alias Evadnd, alias 
Bellamira, alias — Alias — Yea, and I say 
I unto you a greater than Elias — There was 
j Abbot, and talking of Abbot his name puts 
me in mind of a spelling-book lesson, de- 
scriptive of the whole Dramatis persouse — 
I Abbot — Abbess — Actor — Actress — The 
] play is a fine amusement, as a friend of 
: mine once said to me — ' Do what you 
will,' says he, ' a poor gentleman who 
wants a guinea, cannot spend his two shil- 
, lings better than at the playhouse.' The 
pantomime was excellent, I had seen it be- 
fore and I enjoyed it again. Your Mother 

and I had some talk about Miss H. 

j Says I, will Henry have that Miss , a 

lath with a boddice, she who has been fine 
drawn — fit for nothing but to cut up into 
Cribbage pins, to the tune of B. 2 ; one who 
' is all muslin ; all feathers and bone ; once 
in travelling she was made use of as a lynch 
i pin; I hope he will not have her, though It 
' is no uncommon thing to be smitten with a 
staff; though she might be very useful as 
his walking-stick, his fishing-rod, his tooth- 
, pik, his hat-stick (she runs so much in his 
j head) — let him turn farmer, she would 
cut into hurdles ; let him write poetry, she 
would be his turn-style. Her gown is like 
a flag on a pole ; she would do for him if 
he turn freemason ; I hope she will prove 
a flag of truce ; when she sits languishing 
with her one foot on a stool, and one elbow 
on the table, and her head inclined, she 
looks like the sign of the crooked billet — 
or the frontispiece to Cinderella, or a tea- 
paper wood-cut of Mother Shipton at her 
studies ; she is a make-believe — She is 
bona side a thin young 'oman — But this is 
mere talk of a fellow-creature ; yet pardie 
I would not that Henry have her — Non 
volo ut eam possideat, nam, for, it would 
be a bam, for it would be a sham — 

Don't think I am writing a petition to 
the Governors of St. Luke — uo, that would 



be in another style. May it please your 
Worships ; forasmuch as the undersigned 
has committed, transferred, given up, made 
over, consigned, and aberrated himself, to 
the art and mystery of poetry ; forasmuch 
as he hath cut, rebuffed, affronted, huffed, 
and shirked, and taken stint at, all other 
employments, arts, mysteries, and occupa- 
tions, honest, middling, and dishonest; for- 
asmuch as he hath at sundry times and in 
divers places, told truth unto the men of 
this generation, and eke to the women ; 
moreover, forasmuch as he hath kept a 
pair of boots that did not fit, and doth 
not admire Sheil's play, Leigh Hunt, Tom 
Moore, Bob Southey, and Mr. Rogers; and 
does admire Wm. Hazlitt ; moreoverer for 
as more as he liketh half of Wordsworth, 
and none of Crabbe ; moreover-est for as 
most as he hath written this page of pen- 
manship — he prayeth your Worships to 
give him a lodging — Witnessed by Rd. 
Abbey and Co., cum familiaribus et con- 
sanguineis (signed) Count de Cockaigne. 

The nothing of the day is a machine 
called the velocipede. It is a wheel carriage 
to ride cock-horse upon, sitting astride and 
pushing it along with the toes, a rudder 
wheel in hand — they will go seven miles 
an hour — A handsome gelding will come 
to eight guineas ; however they will soon 
be cheaper, unless the army takes to them. 
I look back upon the last month, I find 
nothing to write about ; indeed I do not 
recollect anything particular in it. It 's all 
alike ; we keep on breathing. The only 
amusement is a little scandal, of however 
fine a shape, a laugh at a pun — and then 
after all we wonder how we could enjoy 
the scandal, or laugh at the pun. 

I have been at different times turning it 
in my head whether I should go to ^in- 
burgh and study for a physician ; I am 
afraid I should not take kindlj' to it ; I am 
sure I could not take fees — and yet I 
should like to do so ; it 's not worse than 
writing poems, and hanging them up to be 
fly-blown on the Review shambles. Ever}^- 



362 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



body is in his own mess. Here is the par- 
son at Hampstead quarrelling with all the 
world, he is in the wrong by this same 
token ; when the black cloth was put up in 
the Church for the Queen's mourning, he 
asked the workmen to hang it the wrong 
side outwards, that it might be better when 
taken down, it being his perquisite — Par- 
sons will always keep up their character, 
but as it is said there are some animals the 
ancients knew which we do not, let us hope 
our posterity will miss the black badger 
with tri-cornered hat; Who knows but some 
Reviewer of Buff on or Pliny may put an 
account of the parson in the Appendix ; 
No one will then believe it any more than 
we believe in the Phoenix. I think we may 
class the lawyer in the same natvu-al history 
of Monsters ; a green bag will hold as much 
as a lawn sleeve. The only difference is 
that one is fustian and the other flimsy ; I 
am not unwilling to read Church history at 
present and have Milner's in my eye ; his is 
reckoned a very good one. 

[18th September 1819.] 
In looking over some of my papers I 
found the above specimen of my careless- 
ness. It is a sheet you ought to have had 
long ago — my letter must have appeared 
very unconnected, but as I number the 
sheets you must have discovered how the 
mistake happened. How many things have 
happened since I wrote it — How have I 
acted contrary to my resolves. The inter- 
val between writing this sheet and the 
day I put this supplement to it, has been 
completely filled with generous and most 
friendly actions of Brown towards me. 
How frequently I forget to speak of things 
which I think of and feel most. 'T is very 
singular, the idea about Buffon above has 
been taken up by Hunt in the Examiner, in 
some papers which he calls ' A Preter- 
natural History,' 

Friday 19th March. 
This morning I have been reading 'the 
False One.' Shameful to say, I was in 



bed at ten — I mean this morning. The 
Blackwood Reviewers have committed 
themselves in a scandalous heresy — they 
have been putting up Hogg, the Ettrick 
Shepherd, against Burns : the senseless vil- 
lains ! The Scotch cannot manage them- 
selves at all, they want imagination, and 
that is why they are so fond of Hogg, who 
has a little of it. This morning I am in a 
sort of temper, indolent and supremely 
careless — I long after a Stanza or two of 
Thomson's Castle of Indolence — my pas- 
sions are all asleep, from my having slum- 
bered till nearly eleven, and weakened the 
animal fibre all over me, to a delightful 
sensation, about three degrees on this side 
of faintness. If I had teeth of pearl and 
the breath of lilies I should call it languor, 
but as I am * I must call it laziness. In 
this state of effeminacy the fibres of the 
brain are relaxed in common with the rest 
of the body, and to such a happy degree 
that pleasure has no show of enticement 
and pain no unbearable power. Neither 
Poetry, nor Ambition, nor Love have any 
alertness of countenance as they pass by 
me ; they seem rather like figures on a 
Greek vase — a Man and two women whom 
no one but myself could distinguish in their 
disguisement. This is the only happiness, 
and is a rare instance of the advantage of 
the body overpowering the Mind. I have 
this moment received a note from Haslam, 
in which he expects the death of his Father, 
who has been for some time in a state of 
insensibility ; his mother bears up he says 
very well — I shall go to town to-morrow 
to see him. This is the world — thus we 
cannot expect to give way many hours to 
pleasure. Circumstances are like Clouds 
continually gathering and bursting — While 
we are laughing, the seed of some trouble 
is put into the wide arable land of events 
— while we are laughing it sprouts it grows 
and suddenly bears a poison fruit which we 
must pluck. Even so we have leisure to 
reason on the misfortunes of our friends ; 
* Especially as I have a black eye. 



i 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



3^3 



our own touch us too nearly for words. Very 
few men have ever arrived at a complete 
disinterestedness of Mind : very few have 
been influenced by a pure desire of the 
benefit of others, — in the greater part of 
the Benefactors to Humanity some mere- 
tricious motive has sullied their greatness 

— some melodramatic scenery has fasci- 
nated them. From the manner in which I 
feel Haslam's misfortune I perceive how 
far I am from any humble standard of dis- 
interestedness. Yet this feeling ought to 
be carried to its highest pitch, as there is 
no fear of its ever injuring society — which 
it would do, I fear, pushed to an extremity. 
For in wild nature the Hawk would lose 
his Breakfast of Robins and the Robin his 
of Worms — The Lion must starve as well 
as the swallow. The greater part of Men 
make their way with the same instinctive- 
ness, the same unwandering eye from their 
purposes, the same animal eagerness as the 
Hawk. The Hawk wants a Mate, so does 
the Man — look at them both, they set 
about it and procure one in the same man- 
ner. They want both a nest and they both 
set about one in the same manner — they 
get their food in the same manner. The 
noble animal Man for his amusement 
smokes his pipe — the Hawk balances about 
the Clouds — that is the only difference of 
their leisures. This it is that makes the 
Amusement of Life — to a speculative Mind 

— I go among the Fields and catch a 
glimpse of a Stoat or a fieldmouse peeping 
out of the withered grass — the creature 
hath a purpose, and its eyes are bright 
with it. I go amongst the buildings of a 
city and I see a Man hurrying along — to 
what ? the Creature has a purpose and his 
eyes are bright with it. But then, as 
Wordsworth says, * we have all one hu- 
man heart ' There is an electric fire 

in human nature tending to purify — so 
that among these human creatures there is 
continually some birth of new heroism. The 
pity is that we must wonder at it, as we 
should at finding a pearl in rubbish. I have 



no doubt that thousands of people never 
heard of have had hearts completely disin- 
terested : I can remember but two — So- 
crates and Jesus — Their histories evince 
it. What I heard a little time ago, Taylor 
observe with respect to Socrates, may be 
said of Jesus — That he was so great a 
man that though he transmitted no writing 
of his own to posterity, we have his Mind 
and his sayings and his greatness handed 
to us by others. It is to be lamented that 
the history of the latter was written and 
revised by Men interested in the pious 
frauds of Religion. Yet through all this I 
see his splendour. Even here, though I 
myself am pursuing the same instinctive 
course as the veriest human animal you can 
think of, I am, however young, writing 
at random, straining at particles of light 
in the midst of a great darkness, without 
knowing the bearing of any one assertion, 
of any one opinion. Yet may I not in this 
be free from sin ? May there not be su- 
perior beings amused with any graceful, 
though instinctive, attitude my mind may 
fall into as I am entertained with the 
alertness of a Stoat or the anxiety of a 
Deer ? Though a quarrel in the Streets is 
a thing to be hated, the energies displayed 
in it are fine ; the commonest Man shows a 
grace in his quarrel. By a superior Being 
our reasonings may take the same tone — 
though erroneous they may be fine. This 
is the very thing in which consists Poetry, 
and if so it is not so fine a thing as philoso- 
phy — For the same reason that an eagle is 
not so fine a thing as a truth. Give me 
this credit — Do you not think I strive — 
to know myself ? Give me this credit, and 
you will not think that on my own account 
I repeat Milton's lines — 

' How charming is divine Philosophy, 
Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose. 
But musical as is Apollo's lute.' 

No — not for myself — feeling grateful as 
I do to have got into a state of mind to 
relish them properly. Nothing ever be- 



3^4 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



comes real till it is experienced — Even a 
Proverb is no proverb to you till your Life 
lias illustrated it. I am ever afraid that 
your anxiety for me will lead you to fear 
for the violence of my temperament con- 
tinually smothered down : for that reason 
I did not intend to have sent you the fol- 
lowing sonnet — but look over the two last 
pages and ask yourselves whether I have 
not that in me which will bear the buffets 
of the world. It will be the best comment 
on my sonnet ; it will show you that it 
was written with no Agony but that of 
ignorance ; with no thirst of anything but 
Knowledge when pushed to the point 
though the first steps to it were through 
my human passions — they went away and 
I wrote with my Mind — and perhaps I 
must confess a little bit of my heart — 

[' Wliy did I laugh to-night ? No voice will 
teU,' p. 137.] 

I went to bed and enjoyed an uninterrupted 
sleep. Sane I went to bed and sane I 
arose. 

[April 15.] 

This is the 15th of April — you see what a 
time it is since I wrote ; all that time I have 
been day by day expecting Letters from you. 
I write quite in the dark. In the hopes of 
a Letter daily I have deferred that I might 
write in the light. I was in town yester- 
day, and at Taylor's heard that young 
Birkbeck had been in Town and was to set 
forward in six or seven days — so I shall 
dedicate that time to making up this parcel 
ready for him. I wish I could hear from 
you to make me * whole and general as the 
casing air.' A few days after the 19th of 
April, isic. accurately, March], I received 
a note from Haslam containing the news of 
his father's death. The Family has all 
been well. Haslam has his father's situa- 
tion. The Framptons have behaved well 
to him. The day before yesterday I went 
to a rout at Sawrey's — it was made plea- 
sant by Reynolds being there and our get- 
ting into conversation with one of the most 
beautiful Girls I ever saw — She gave a 



remarkable prettiness to all those common- 
places which most women who talk must 
utter — I liked Mrs. Sawrey very well. 
The Sunday before last your Brothers were 
to come by a long invitation — so long that 
for the time I forgot it when I promised 
Mrs. Brawne to dine with her on the same 
day. On recollecting my engagement with 
your Brotliers I immediately excused my- 
self with Mrs Brawne, but she would not 
hear of it, and insisted on my bringing my 
friends with me. So we all dined at Mrs. 
Brawne's. I have been to Mrs. Bentley's 
this morning, and put all the letters to and 
from you and poor Tom and me. I found 
some of the correspondence between him 
and that degraded Wells and Amena. It 
is a wretched business ; I do not know the 
rights of it, but what I do know would, 
I am sure, affect you so much that I am 
in two minds whether I will tell you any- 
thing about it. And yet I do not see why 

— for anything, though it be unpleasant, 
that calls to mind those we still love has a 
compensation in itself for the pain it oc- 
casions — so very likely to-morrow I may 
set about copying the whole of what I have 
about it : with no sort of a Richardson 
self-satisfaction — I hate it to a sickness 

— and I am afraid more from indolence of 
mind than anything else. I wonder how 
people exist with all their worries. I have 
not been to Westminster but once lately, 
and that was to see Dilke in his new Lodg- 
ings — I think of living somewhere in the 
neighbourhood myself. Your mother was 
well by your Brothers' account. I shall 
see her perhaps to-morrow — yes I shall. 
We have had the Boys herte lately — they 
make a bit of a racket — I shall not be 
sorry when they go. I found also this 
morning, in a note from George to you and 
my dear sister a lock of your hair which I 
shall this moment put in the miniature case. 
A few days ago Hunt dined here and 
Brown invited Davenport to meet him, 
Davenport from a sense of weakness 
thought it incumbent on him to show off — 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



36i 



and pursuant to that never ceased talking 
and boring all day till I was completely 
fagged out. Brown grew melancholy — 
but Hunt perceiving what a complimentary 
tendency all this had bore it remarkably 
"U — Brown grumbled about it for two 
three days. I went with Hunt to Sir 
John Leicester's gallery ; there I saw 
Northcote — Hilton — Bewick, and many 
more of great and Little note. Haydon's 
picture is of very little progress this year 

— He talks about finishing it next year. 
Wordsworth is going to publish a Poem 
called Peter Bell — what a perverse fel- 
low it is ! Why will he talk about Peter 
Bells — I was told not to tell — but 
to you it will not be telling — Rey- 
nolds hearing that said Peter Bell was 
coming out, took it into his head to write 
a skit upon it called Peter Bell. He did it 
as soon as thought on, it is to be published 
this morning, and comes out before the 
real Peter Bell, with this admirable motto 
from the ' Bold Stroke for a Wife ' ' I am 
the real Simon Pure.' It would be just 
as well to trounce Lord Byron in the same 
manner. I am still at a stand in versify- 
ing — I cannot do it yet with any pleasure 

— I mean, however, to look round on my 
resources and means, and see what I can 
do without poetry — To that end I shall 
live in Westminster — I have no doubt of 
making by some means a little to help on, or 
I shall be left in the Lurch — with the bur- 
den of a little Pride — However I look in 
time. The Dilkes like their Lodgings at 
Westminster tolerably well. I cannot help 
thinking what a shame it is that poor Dilke 
should give up his comfortable house and 
garden for his Son, whom he will certainly 
ruin with too much care. The boy has 
nothing in his ears all day but himself and 
the importance of his education. Dilke has 
continually in his mouth ' My Boy.' This is 
what spoils princes : it may have the same 
effect with Commoners. Mrs. Dilke has 
been very well latelj"^ — But what a shame- 
ful thing it is that for that obstinate Boy 



Dilke should stifle himself in TtVn Lodg- 
ings and wear out his Life by his continual 
apprehension of his Boy's fate in West- 
minster school, with the re i, of the Boys 
and the Masters. Every one has some 
wear and tear. One would think Dilke 
ought to be quiet and happy — but no — 
this one Boy makes his face pale, his society 
silent and his vigilance jealous — He would 
I have no doubt quarrel with any one who 
snubb'd his Boy — With all this he has no 
notion how to manage him. O what a 
farce is our greatest cares ! Yet one must 
be in the pother for the sake of Clothes 
food and Lodging. There has been a 
squabble between Kean and Mr. Bucke — 
There are faults on both sides — on Bucke's 
the faults are positive to the Question : 
Kean's fault is a want of genteel know- 
ledge and high Policy. The former writes 
knavishly foolish, and the other silly bom- 
bast. It was about a Tragedy written by 
said Mr. Bucke which, it appears, Mr. 
Kean kick'd at — it was so bad — After 
a little sti'uggle of Mr. Bucke's against 
Kean, Drury Lane had the Policy to bring 
it out and Kean the impolicy not to appear 
in it. It was damn'd. The people in the 
Pit had a favourite call on the night of 
'Buck, Buck, rise up' and 'Buck, Buck, 
how many horns do I hold up.' Kotzebue 
the German Dramatist and traitor to his 
country was murdered lately by a young 
student whose name I forget — he stabbed 
himself immediately after crying out Ger- 
many ! Germany ! I was unfortunate to 
miss Richai'ds the only time I have been 
for many months to see him. 

Shall I treat you with a little extem- 
pore ? — 

['Wlien they were come into the Faery's 
Court,' p. 249.] 

Brown is gone to bed — and I am tired 
of rhyming — there is a north wind blow- 
ing playing young gooseberry with the 
trees — I don't care so it helps even with a 
side wind a Letter to me — for I cannot 
put faith in any reports I hear of the Settle- 



366 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



ment ; some are good and some bad. Last 
Sunday I. took a Walk towards Highgate 
and in the lane that winds by the side of 
Lord MansfivM's park I met Mr. Green 
our Demonstrator at Guy's in conversation 
with Coleridge — I joined them, after en- 
quiring by a look whether it would be 
agreeable — I walked with him at his 
alderman-after-dinner pace for near two 
miles I suppose. In those two Miles 
he broached a thousand things — let me 
see if I can give you a list — Nightingales 

— Poetry — on Poetical Sensation — Meta- 
physics — Different genera and species of 
Dreams — Nightmare — a dream accom- 
panied by a sense of touch — single and 
double touch — a dream related — First 
and second consciousness — the difference 
explained between will and Volition — so 
say metaphysicians from a want of smoking 
the second consciousness — Monsters — the 
Kraken — Mermaids — Southey believes in 
them — Southey's belief too much diluted 

— a Ghost story — Good morning — I 
heard his voice as he came towards me — I 
heard it as he moved away — I had heard 
it all the interval — if it may be called so. 
He was civil enough to ask me to call on 
him at Highgate. Good-night ! 

[Later, April 16 or 17.] 
It looks so much like rain I shall not go 
to town to-day : but put it off till to-morrow. 
Brown this morning is writing some Spen- 
serian stanzas against Mrs., Miss Brawne 
and me ; so I shall amuse myself with him 
a little : in the manner of Spenser — 
[' He is to weet a melancholy Carle,' p. 250.] 
This character would ensure him a situa- 
tion in the establishment of patient Gri- 
selda. The servant has come for the little 
Browns this morning — they have been a 
toothache to me which I shall enjoy the 
riddance of — Their little voices are like 
wasps' stings — Sometimes am I all wound 
with Browns.*^ We had a claret feast 
some little while ago. There were Dilke, 
Reynolds, Skinner, Mancur, John Brown, 



Martin, Brown and I. We all got a little 
tipsy — but pleasantly so — I enjoy Claret 
to a degree. 

[Later, April 18 or 19.] 
I have been looking over the correspond- 
ence of the pretended Amena and Wells 
this evening — I now see the whole cruel 
deception. I think Wells must have had 
an accomplice in it — Amena's letters are 
in a Man's language and in a Man's hand 
imitating a woman's. The instigations to 
this diabolical scheme were vanity, and 
the love of intrigue. It was no thoughtless 
hoax — but a cruel deception on a sanguine 
Temperament, with every show of friend- 
ship. I do not think death too bad for the 
villain. The world would look upon it in 
a different light should I expose it — they 
would call it a frolic — so I must be wary 
— but I consider it my duty to be prudently 
revengeful. 1 will hang over his head like 
a sword by a hair. I will be opium to his 
vanity — if I cannot injure his interests — 
He is a rat and he shall have ratsbane to 
his vanity — I will harm him all I possibly 
can — I have no doubt I shall be able to do 
so — Let us leave him to his misery alone, 
except when we can throw in a little more. 
The fifth canto of Dante pleases me more 
and more — it is that one in which he meets 
with Paolo and Francesca. I had passed 
many days in rather a low state of mind, 
and in the midst of them I dreamt of being 
in that region of Hell. The dream was 
one of the most delightful enjoyments I 
ever had in my life. I floated about the 
whirling atmosphere, as it is described, with 
a beautiful figure, to whose lips mine were 
joined as it seemed for an age — and in 
the midst of all this cold and darkness I 
was warm — even flowery tree-tops spnmg 
up, and we rested on them, sometimes 
with the lightness of a cloud, till the wind 
blew us away again. I tried a sonnet upon 
it — there are fourteen lines, but nothing 
of what I felt in it — O that I could dream 
it every night — 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



367 



[' As Hermes once took to his feathers light,' 
p. 138.] 

I want very very much a little of your 
wit, my dear Sister — a Letter or two of 
yours just to bandy back a pun or two 
across the Atlantic, and send a quibble 
over the Floridas. Now you have by this 
time crumpled up your large Bonnet, what 
do you wear — a cap ? do you put your 
hair in papers of a night ? do you pay the 
Miss Birkbecks a morning visit — have you 
any tea ? or do you milk-and-water with 
them — What place of Worship do you go 
to — the Quakers, the Moravians, the Uni- 
tarians, or the Methodists ? Are there any 
; flowers in bloom you like — any beautiful 
heaths — any streets full of Corset Makers ? 
What sort of shoes have you to fit those 
pretty feet of yours ? Do you desire 
Compliments to one another ? Do you ride 
on Horseback ? What do you have for 
breakfast, dinner, and supper ? without 
mentioning lunch and bever [a bite be- 
tween meals] and wet and snack — and a 
bit to stay one's stomach ? Do you get 
any Spirits — now you might easily distill 
some whiskey — and going into the woods, 
set up a whiskey shop for the Monkeys — 
Do you and the Miss Birkbecks get groggy 
on anything — a little so-soish so as to be 
obliged to be seen home with a Lantern ? 
You may perhaps have a game at puss in 
the corner — Ladies are warranted to play 
at this game though they have not whiskers. 
Have you a fiddle in the Settlement — or 
at any rate a Jew's harp — which will play 
in spite of one's teeth — When you have 
nothing else to do for a whole day I tell 
you how you may employ it — First get up 
and when you are dressed, as it would be 
pretty early with a high wind in the woods, 
give George a cold Pig with my Compli- 
ments. Then you may saunter into the 
nearest coffee-house, and after taking a 
dram and a look at the Chronicle — go and 
frighten the wild boars upon the strength 
— you may as well bring one home for 
breakfast, serving up the hoofs garnished 



with bristles and a grunt or two to accom- 
pany the singing of the kettle — then if 
George is not up give him a colder Pig 
always with my Compliments — When you 
are both set down to breakfast I advise 
you to eat your full share, but leave off 
immediately on feeling yourself inclined to 
anything on the other side of the puffy — 
avoid that, for it does not become young 
women — After you have eaten your break- 
fast keep your eye upon dinner — it is the 
safest way — You should keep a Hawk's 
eye over your dinner and keep hovering 
over it till due time then pounce taking 
care not to break any plates. While you 
are hovering with your dinner in pro- 
spect you may do a thousand things — put a 
hedgehog into George's hat — pour a little 
water into his rifle — soak his boots in a pail 
of water — cut his jacket round into shreds 
like a Roman kilt or the back of my grand- 
mother's stays — Sew off his buttons — 

[Later, April 21 or 22.] 

Yesterday I could not write a line I was 
so fatigued, for the day before I went to 
town in the morning, called on your Mother, 
and returned in time for a few friends we 
had to dinner. These were Taylor, Wood- 
house, Reynolds : we began cards at about 
9 o'clock, and the night coming on, and 
continuing dark and rainy, they could not 
think of returning to town — So we played 
at Cards till very daylight — and yesterday 
I was not worth a sixpence. Your Mother 
was very well but auxious for a Letter. We 
had half an hour's talk and no more, for I 
was obliged to be home. Mrs. and Miss 
Millar were well, and so was Miss Walde- 
grave. I have asked your Brothers here 
for next Sunday. When Reynolds was 
here on Monday he asked me to give Hunt a 
hint to take notice of his Peter Bell in the 
Examiner — the best thing I can do is to 
write a little notice of it myself, which I 
will do here, and copy out if it should suit 
my Purpose — 

Peter Bell. There have been lately ad- 



368 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



vertised two Books both Peter Bell by 
uame ; what stuff the one was made of 
might be seen by the motto — ' I am the 
real Simon Pure.' This false Florimel has 
hurried from the press and obtruded herself 
into public notice, while for aught we know 
the real one may be still wandering about 
the woods and mountains. Let us hope 
she may soon appear and make good her 
right to the magic girdle. The Pamphle- 
teering Archimage, we can perceive, has 
rather a splenetic love than a downright 
hatred to real Florimels — if indeed they 
had been so christened — or had even a 
pretention to play at bob cherry with Bar- 
bara Lewthvraite : but he has a fixed 
aversion to those three rhyming Graces 
Alice Fell, Susan Gale and Betty Foy ; and 
now at length especially to Peter Bell — 
fit Apollo. It may be seen from one or 
two Passages in this little skit, that the 
writer of it has felt the finer parts of Mr. 
Wordsworth, and perhaps expatiated with 
his more remote and sublimer muse. This 
as far as it relates to Peter Bell is unlucky. 
The more he may love the sad embroidery 
of the Excursion, the more he will hate the 
coarse Samplers of Betty Foy and Alice 
Fell ; and as they come from the same hand, 
the better will he be able to imitate that 
which can be imitated, to wit Peter Bell — 
as far as can be imagined from the obsti- 
nate Name. We repeat, it is very unlucky 
— this real Simon Pure is in parts the very 
Man — there is a pernicious likeness in the 
scenery, a ' pestilent humour ' in the 
rhymes, and an inveterate cadence in some 
of the Stanzas, that must be lamented. If 
we are one part amused with this we are 
three parts sorry that an appreciator of 
Wordsworth should show so much temper 
at this really provoking name of Peter 
Bell — ! 

This will do well enough — I have copied 
it and enclosed it to Hunt. You will call 
it a little politic — seeing I keep clear of 
all parties. I say something for and against 
both parties — and suit it to the tune of the 



Examiner — I meant to say I do not unsuit 
it — and I believe I think what I say, nay 
I am sure I do — I and my conscience are 
in luck to-day — which is an excellent 
thing. The other night I went to the Play 
with Rice, Reynolds, and Martin — we saw 
a new dull and half-damn'd opera call'd 
the ' Heart of Midlothian,' that was on 
Saturday — I stopt at Taylor's on Sunday 
with Woodhouse — and passed a quiet sort 
of pleasant day. I have been very much 
pleased with the Panorama of the Ship at 
the North Pole — with the icebergs, the 
Mountains, the Bears, the Wolves — the 
seals, the Penguins — and a large whale 
floating back above water — it is impossible 
to describe the place — 

Wednesday Evening [April 28]. 
[Here follows the poem for which see p. 139. 
The eighth stanza reads : 

She took me to her elfin grot 

And there she wept and sigh'd full sore. 
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes 
With kisses four — ] 

Why four kisses — you will say — why 
four, because I wish to restrain the head- 
long impetuosity of my Muse — she would 
have fain said ' score ' without hurting the 
rhyme — but we must temper the Imagina- 
tion, as the Critics say, with Judgment. I 
was obliged to choose an even number, that 
both eyes might have fair play, and to 
speak truly I think two a piece quite suf- 
ficient. Suppose I had said seven there 
would have been three and a half a piece 
— a very awkward affaii", and well got out 
of on my side — 

[Later.] 
Chorus of Faieies. 4 — Fire, Air, Earth, 
AND Water — Salamanber, Zephyr, 

DUSKETHA, BrEAMA. 

[Keats here copies the verses given on pp. 
140, 141.] 

I have been reading lately two very 
different books, Robertson's America and 
Voltaire's Sifeele de Louis XIV. It is like 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



369 



walking arm and arm between Pizarro and 
the great-little Monarch. In how lament- 
able a case do we see the great body of the 
people in both instances; in the first, where 
Men might seem to inherit quiet of Mind 
from unsophisticated senses ; from uncon- 
tamination of civilisation, and especiallj' 
from their being, as it were, estranged 
from the mutual helps of Society and its 
mutual injuries — and thereby more im- 
mediately under the Protection of Provi- 
dence — even there they had mortal pains 
to bear as bad, or even worse than Bailiffs, 
Debts, and Poverties of civilised Life. 
The whole appears to resolve into this — 
that Man is originally a poor forked crea- 
ture subject to the same mischances as the 
beasts of the forest, destined to hardships 
and disquietude of some kind or other. If 
he improves by degrees his bodily accommo- 
dations and comforts — at each stage, at 
each ascent there are waiting for him a 
fresh set of annoyances — he is mortal, and 
there is still a heaven with its Stars above 
his head. The most interesting question 
that can come before us is, How far by 
the persevering endeavours of a seldom 
appearing Socrates Mankind may be made 
happy — I can imagine such happiness 
carried to an extreme, but what must it 
end in ? — Death — and who could in such 
a case bear with death ? The whole 
troubles of life, which are now frittered 
away in a series of years, would then be 
accumulated for the last days of a being 
who instead of hailing its approach would 
leave this world as Eve left Paradise. But 
in truth I do not at all believe in this sort 
of perfectibility — the nature of the world 
will not admit of it — the inhabitants of 
the world will correspond to itself. Let the 
fish Philosophise the ice away from the 
Rivers in winter time, and they shall be at 
continual play in the tepid delight of sum- 
mer. Look at the Poles and at the Sands 
of Africa, whirlpools and volcanoes — Let 
men exterminate them and I will say that 
fthey may arrive at earthly Happiness. The 



point at which Man may arrive is as far as 
the parallel state in inanimate nature, and 
no further. For instance suppose a rose to 
have sensation, it blooms on a beautiful 
morning, it enjoys itself, but then comes a 
cold wind, a hot sun — it cannot escape it, 
it cannot destroy its annoyances — they are 
as native to the world as itself : no more 
can man be happy in spite, the worldly ele- 
ments will prey upon his nature. The 
common cognomen of this world among the 
misguided and superstitious is ' a vale of 
tears,' from which we are to be redeemed 
by a certain arbitrary interposition of God 
and taken to Heaven — What a little cir- 
cumscribed straightened notion ! Call the 
world if you please 'The vale of Soul- 
making.' Then you will find out the use of 
the world (I am speaking now in the highest 
terms for human nature admitting it to be 
immortal which I will here take for granted 
for the purpose of showing a thought which 
has struck me concerning it) I say ' Soul- 
making ' — Soul as distinguished from an 
Intelligence. There may be intelligences 
or sparks of the divinity in millions — but 
they are not Souls till they acquire identi- 
ties, till each one is personally itself. Intel- 
ligences are atoms of perception — they 
know and they see and they are pure, in short 
they are God — how then are Souls to be 
made ? How then are these sparks which 
are God to have identity given them — so 
as ever to possess a bliss peculiar to each 
one's individual existence ? How, but by 
the medium of a world like this ? This point 
I sincerely wish to consider because I 
think it a grander system of salvation than 
the Christian religion — or rather it is a 
system of Spirit-creation — This is effected 
by three grand materials acting the one 
upon the other for a series of years — 
These three Materials are the Intelligence 
— the human heart (as distinguished from 
intelligence or Mind), and the World or 
Elemental space suited for the proper action 
of Mind and Heart on each other for the 
purpose of forming the Soul or Intelligence 



37° 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



destined to possess the sense of Identity. I 
can scarcely express what I but dimly per- 
ceive — and yet I tbink I perceive it — 
that you may judge the more clearly I will 
put it in the most homely form possible. I 
will call the loorld a School instituted for 
the purpose of teaching little childreti to 
read — I will call the human heart the horn 
Booh used in that School — and I will call 
the Child able to read, the Soul made frona 
that School and its horn book. Do you not 
see how necessary a World of Pains and 
troubles is to school an Intelligence and 
make it a soul ? A Place where the heart 
must feel and suffer in a thousand diverse 
ways. Not merely is the Heart a Horn- 
book, It is the Mind's Bible, it is the Mind's 
experience, it is the text from which the 
Mind or Intelligence sucks its identity. 
As various as the Lives of Men are — so 
various become their souls, and thus does 
God make individual beings, Souls, Identi- 
cal Souls of the sparks of his own essence. 
This appears to me a faint sketch of a sys- 
tem of Salvation which does not offend our 
reason and humanity — I am convinced that 
many difficulties which Christians labour 
under would vanish before it — there is one 
which even now strikes me — the salvation 
of Children. In them the spark or intel- 
ligence x-eturns to God without any identity 
— it having had no time to learn of and be 
altered by the heart — or seat of the human 
Passions. It is pretty generally suspected 
that the Christian scheme has been copied 
from the ancient Persian and Greek Philo- 
sophers. Why may they not have made 
this simple thing even more simple for 
common apprehension by introducing Medi- 
ators and Personages, in the same manner 
as in the heathen mythology abstractions 
are personified ? Seriously I think it prob- 
able that this system of Soul-making may 
have been the Parent of all the more pal- 
pable and personal schemes of Redemption 
among the Zoroastrians the Christians and 
the Hindoos. For as one part of the human 
species must have their carved Jupiter ; so 



another part must have the palpable and 
named Mediator and Saviour, their Christ, 
their Oromanes, and their Vishnu. If what 
I have said should not be plain enough, 
as I fear it may not be, I will put you in 
the place where I began in this series of 
thoughts — I mean I began by seeing how 
man was formed by circumstances — and 
what are circumstances but touchstones 
of his heart ? and what are touchstones 
but provings of his heart, but fortifiers 
or alterers of his nature ? and what is 
his altered nature but his Soul ? — and 
what was his Soul before it came into the 
world and had these provings and altera- 
tions and perf ectionings ? — An intelligence 
without Identity — and how is this Identity 
to be made ? Through the medium of the 
Heart ? and how is the heart to become 
this Medium but in a world of Circum- 
stances ? 

There now I think what with Poetry and 
Theology, you may thank your stars that 
my pen is not very long-winded. Yes- 
terday I received two Letters from your 
Mother and Henry, which I shall send by 
young Birkbeck with this. 

Friday, April 30. 

Brown has been here rummaging up some 
of my old sins — that is to say sonnets. I do 
not think you remember them, so I will copy 
them out, as well as two or three lately 
written. I have just written one on Fame 
— which Brown is transcribing and he has 
his book and mine. I must employ myself 
perhaps in a sonnet on the same subject. — 
[Here are given the two sonnets on Fame, 
and the one To Sleep, p. 142.] 

The following Poem — the last I have 
written — is the first and the only one with 
which I have taken even moderate pains. 
I have for the most part dash'd off my lines 
in a hurry. This I have done leisurely — 
I think it reads the more richly for it, and 
Avill I hope epcourage me to write other 
things in even a more peaceable and healthy 
spirit. You must recollect that Psyche was 



TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 



371 



not embodied as a goddess before the time 
of Apuleius the Platouist who lived after 
the Augustan age, and consequently the 
Goddess was never worshipped or sacrificed 
to with any of the ancient fervour — and 
perhaps never thought of in the old religion 
— I am more orthodox than to let a hea- 
then Goddess be so neglected — 

' [The Ode to Psyche, p. 142, here follows.] 

Here endethe ye Ode to Psyche. 



Incipit altera Sonneta 

I have been endeavouring to discover a 
better Sonnet Stanza than we have. The 
legitimate does not suit the language over 
well from the pouncing rhymes — the other 
kind appears too elegiac — and the couplet 
at the end of it has seldom a pleasing effect 
— I do not pretend to have succeeded — it 
will explain itself. [See p. 144.] 

[May 3.] 
This is the third of May, and everything 
is in delightful forwardness ; the violets 
are not withered before the peeping of the 
first rose. You must let me know every- 
thing — how parcels go and come, what 
papers you have, and what newspapers you 
want, and other things. God bless you, my 
dear brother and sister. 

Your ever affectionate Brother 

John Keats. 



95. TO FANNY KEATS 

Wentworth Place. Saturday Morn. 

[Postmark, February 27, 1819.] 

My dear Fanny — I intended to have 

not failed to do as you requested, and write 

you as you say once a fortnight. On look- 

ig to your letter I find there is no date; 

md not knowing how long it is since I re- 

;eived it I do not precisely know how great 

I sinner I am. I am getting quite well, 

md Mrs. Dilke is getting on pretty well. 



You must pay no attention to Mrs. Abbey's 
unfeeling and ignorant gabble. You can't 
stop an old woman's crying more than you 
can a Child's. The old woman is the great- 
est nuisance because she is too old for the 
rod. Many people live opposite a Black- 
smith's till they cannot hear the hammer. 
I have been in Town for two or three days 
and came back last night. I have been a 
little concerned at not hearing from George 
— I continue in daily expectation. Keep 
on reading and play as much on the music 
and the grassplot as you can. I should 
like to take possession of those Grassplots 
for a Month or so ; and send Mrs. A. to 
Town to count coffee berries instead of 
currant Bunches, for I want you to teach 
me a few common dancing steps — and I 
would buy a Watch box to practise them 
in by myself. I think I had better always 
pay the postage of these Letters. I shall 
send you another book the first time I am 
in Town early enough to book it with one 
of the morning Walthamstow Coaches. 
You did not say a word about your Chill- 
blains. Write me directly and let me know 
about them — Your Letter shall be an- 
swered like an echo. 

Your affectionate Brother John . 

96. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 

Wentworth Place, 
[Postmark, March 8, 1819.] 

My dear Haydon, — You must be won- 
dering where I am and what I am about ! 
I am mostly at Hampstead, and about no- 
thing; being in a sort of qui bono temper, 
not exactly on the road to an epic poem. 
Nor must you think I have forgotten you. 
No, I have about every three days been 
to Abbey's and to the Law[y]ers. Do let 
me know how you have been getting on, 
and in what spirits you are. 

You got out gloriously in yesterday's 
Examiner. What a set of little people we 
live amongst! I went the other day into an 
ironmonger's sliop — without any change 



372 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



iu iny sensations — men and tin kettles are 
much the same in these days — they do not 
study like children at five and thirty — but 
they talk like men of twenty. Conversa- 
tion is not a search after knowledge, but 
an endeavour at effect. 

In this respect two most opposite men, 
Wordsworth and Hunt, are the same. A 
friend of mine observed the other day that 
if Lord Bacon were to make any remark 
in a party of the present day, the conversa- 
tion would stop on the sudden. I am con- 
vinced of this, and from this I have come 
to this resolution — never to write for the 
sake of writing or making a poem, but 
from running over with any little knowl- 
edge or experience which many years of 
reflection may perhaps give me ; otherwise 
I will be dumb. What imagination I have 
I shall enjoy, and greatl}^ for I have ex- 
perienced the satisfaction of having great 
conceptions without the trouble of sounet- 
teering. I will not spoil my love of gloom 
by writing an Ode to Darkness ! 

With respect to my livelihood, I will not 
write for it, — for I will not run with that 
most vulgar of all crowds, the literary. 
Such things I ratify by looking upon my- 
self, and trying myself at lifting mental 
weights, as it were. I am three and twenty 
with little knowledge and middling intel- 
lect. It is true that in the height of enthu- 
siasm I have been cheated into some fine 
passages ; but that is not the thing. 

I have not been to see you because all 
my going out has been to town, and that 
has been a great deal. Write soon. 

Yours constantly, John Keats. 

97. TO FANNY KEATS 

Wentworth Place, March 13 [1819]. 
My dear Fanny — I have been em- 
ployed lately in writing to George — I do 
not send him very short letters, but keep 
on day after day. There were some young 
Men I think I told you of who were going 
to the Settlement : they have changed their 



minds, and I am disappointed in my expec- 
tation of sending Letters by them. — I went 
lately to the only dance I have been to these 
twelve months or shall go to for twelve 
months again — it was to our Brother in 
law's cousin's — She gave a dance for her 
Birthday and I went for the sake of Mrs. 
Wylie. I am waiting every day to hear 
from George — I trust there is no harm in 
the silence: other people are in the same 
expectation as we are. On looking at your 
seal I cannot tell whether it is done or not 
with a Tassie — it seems to me to be paste. 
As I went through Leicester Square lately 
I was going to call and buy you some, but 
not knowing but you might have some I 
would not run the chance of buying dupli- 
cates. Tell me if you have any or if you 
would like any — and whether you would 
rather have motto ones like that with which 
I seal this letter ; or heads of great Men 
such as Shakspeare, Milton, etc. — or fancy 
pieces of Art; such as Fame, Adonis, etc. — 
those gentry you read of at the end of the 
English Dictionary. Tell me also if you 
want any particular Book ; or Pencils, or 
drawing paper — anything but live stock. 
Though I will not now be very severe on 
it, remembering how foud I used to be 
of Goldfinches, Tomtits, Minnows, Mice, 
Ticklebacks, Dace, Cock salmons and all the 
whole tribe of the Bushes and the Brooks: 
but verily they are better iu the Trees and 
the water — though I must confess even 
now a partiality for a handsome Globe of 
gold-fish — then I would have it hold 10 
pails of water and be fed continually fresh 
through a cool pipe with another pipe to let 
through the floor — well ventilated they 
would preserve all their beautiful silver 
and Crimson. Then I would put it before 
a handsome painted window and shade it 
all round with myrtles and Japonicas. 1 
should like the window to open onto the 
Lake of Geneva — and there I 'd sit and 
read all day like the picture of somebod} 
reading. The weather now and then beginf 
to feel like spring; and therefore I hav« 



TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 



373 



begun my walks on the heath again. Mrs. 
Dilke is getting better than she has been 
as she has at length taken a Physician's ad- 
vice. She ever and anon asks after you 
and always bids me remember her in my 
Letters to you. She is going to leave 
Hampstead for the sake of educating their 
son Charles at the Westminster School. 
I We (Mr. Brown and I) shall leave in the 
beginning of May; I do not know what I 
shall do or where be all the next summer. 
Mrs. Reynolds has had a sick house ; but 
they are all well now. You see what news 
I can send you I do — we all live one day 
like the other as well as you do — the only 
difference is being sick and well — with the 
variations of single and double knocks, and 
the story of a dreadful fire in the News- 
papers. I mentioned Mr. Brown's name — 
yet I do not think I ever said a word about 
him to you. He is a friend of mine of 
two years' standing, with whom I walked 
through Scotland: who has been very kind 
to me in many things when I most wanted 
his assistance and with whom I keep house 
till the first of May — you will know him 
some day. The name of the young Man 
who came with me is William Haslam. 
Ever your affectionate Brother John. 



98. 



TO THE SAME 



[Postmark, Hampstead, March 24, 1819.] 
My dear Fanny — It is impossible for 
me to call on you to-day — for I have par- 
ticular Business at the other end of the 
Town this morning, and must be back to 
Hampstead with all speed to keep a long 
agreed on appointment. To-morrow I shall 
see you. Your affectionate Brother 
John . 

99, to joseph severn 

Wentworth Place, Monday Aft. 
[March 29? 1819J. 

My dear Severn — Your note gave me 
some pain, not on my own account, but on 



yours. Of course I should never suffer 
any petty vanity of mine to hinder you in 
any wise; and therefore I should say 'put 
the miniature in the exhibition ' if only 
myself was to be hurt. But, will it not 
hurt you? What good can it do to any 
future picture. Even a large picture is 
lost in that canting place — what a drop of 
water in the ocean is a Miniature. Those 
who might chance to see it for the most 
part if they had ever heard of either of us 
and know what we were and of what years 
would laugh at the puff of the one and the 
vanity of the other. I am however in these 
matters a very bad judge — and would ad- 
vise you to act in a way that appears to 
yourself the best for your interest. As 
your ' Hermia and Helena ' is finished 
send that without the prologue of a Minia- 
ture. I shall see you soon, if you do not 
pay me a visit sooner — there 's a Bull for 
you. Yours ever sincerely 

John Keats. 

100. to BBNJAMTN ROBERT HAYDON 

Tuesday [April 13, 1819]. 
My dear Haydon — When I offered 
you assistance I thought I had it in my 
hand ; I thought I had nothing to do 
but to do. The difficulties I met with 
arose from the alertness and suspicion of 
Abbey : and especially from the affairs 
being still in a Lawyer's hand — who has 
been draining our Property for the last six 
years of every charge he could make. I 
cannot do two things at once, and thus this 
affair has stopped my pursuits iu every 
way — from the first prospect I had of 
difficulty. I assure you I have harrassed 
myself ten times more than if I alone had 
been concerned in so much gain or loss. I 
have also ever told you the exact particu- 
lars as well as and as literally as any hopes 
or fear could translate them : for it was 
only by parcels that I found all those petty 
obstacles which for my own sake should 
not exist a moment — and yet why not — 



374 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



1 



for from my own imprudence and neglect 
all my accounts are entirely in my Guard- 
ian's Power. This has taught me a Les- 
son. Hereafter I will be more correct. 
I find myself possessed of much less than 
I thought for and now if I had all on the 
table all I could do would be to take from 
it a moderate two years' subsistence and 
lend you the rest ; but I cannot say how 
soon I could become jjossessed of it. This 
would be no sacrifice nor any matter worth 
thinking of — much less than parting as 1 
have more than once done with little sums 
which might have gradually formed a 
library to my taste. These sums amount 
together to nearly £200, which I have 
but a chance of ever being repaid or paid 
at a very distant period. I am humble 
enough to put this in writing from the 
sense I have of your struggling situation 
and the great desire that you should do me 
the justice to credit me the unostentatious 
and willing state of my nerves on all such 
occasions. It has not been my fault. I 
am doubly hurt at the slightly reproachful 
tone of your note and at the occasion of it, 
— for it must be some other disappoint- 
ment ; you seem'd so sure of some impor- 
tant help when I last saw you — now you 
have maimed me again ; I was whole, I 
had began reading again — when your note 
came I was engaged in a Book. I dread 
as much as a Plague the idle fever of two 
months more without any fruit. I will 
walk over the first fine day : then see what 
aspect your affairs have taken, and if they 
should continue gloomy walk into the City 
to Abbey and get his consent for I am per- 
suaded that to me alone he will not concede 
a jot. 

101. TO FANNY KEATS 

Wentworth Place [April 13, 1819]. 
My dear Fanny — I have been expect- 
ing a Letter from you about what the Par- 
son said to your answers. I have thought 
also of writing to you often, and I am sorry 



to confess that my neglect of it has been 
but a small instance of my idleness of late 
— which has been growing upon me, so 
that it will require a great shake to get rid 
of it. I have written nothing and almost 
read nothing — but I must turn over a new 
leaf. One most discouraging thing hinders 
me — we have no news yet from George — 
so that I cannot with any confidence con- 
tinue the Letter I have been preparing for 
him. Many are in the same state with us 
and many have heard from the Settlement. 
They must be well however: and we must 
consider this silence as good news. I or- 
dered some bulbous roots for you at the 
Gardener's, and they sent me some, but 
they were all in bud — and could not be 
sent — so I put them in our Garden. There 
are some beautiful heaths now in bloom in 
Pots — either heaths or some seasonable 
plants I will send you instead — perhaps 
some that are not yet in bloom that you 
may see them come out. To-morrow night 
I am going to a rout, a thing I am not at 
all in love with. Mr. Dilke and his Family 
have left Hampstead — I shall dine with 
them to-day in Westminster where I think 
I told you they were going to reside for 
the sake of sending their son Charles to 
the Westminster School. I think I men- 
tioned the Death of Mr. Haslam's Father. 
Yesterday week the two Mr. Wylies dined 
with me. I hope you have good store 
of double violets — I think they are the 
Princesses of flowers, and in a shower of 
rain, almost as fine as barley sugar drops 
are to a schoolboy's tongue. I suppose 
this fine weather the lambs' tails give a 
frisk or two extraordinary — when a boy 
would cry huzzah and a Girl O my ! a little 
Lamb frisks its tail. I have not been lately 
through Leicester Square — the first time I 
do I will remember your Seals. I have 
thought it best to live in Town this Sum- 
mer, chiefly for the sake of books, which 
cannot be had with any comfort in the 
Country — besides my Scotch journey gave 
me a dose of the Picturesque with which I 



TO WILLIAM HASLAM 



375 



ought to be contented for some time. West- 
minster is the place I have pitched upon — 
the City or any place very confined would 
soon turn me pale and thin — which is to 
be avoided. You must make up your mind 
to get stout this summer — indeed I have 
an idea we shall both be corpulent old folks 
with tripple chins and stumpy thumbs. 
Your affectionate Brother John. 

102. TO THE SAME 

Wentworth Place, Saturday. 
[April 17, 1819?.] 

My dear Fanny — If it were but six 
o'clock in the morning I would set off to 
see you to-day : if I should do so now I 
could not stop long enough for a how d 'ye 
do — it is so long a walk through Hornsey 
and Tottenham — and as for Stage Coach- 
ing it besides that it is very expensive it is 
like going into the Boxes by way of the 
pit. I cannot go out on Sunday — but if 
on Monday it should promise as fair as 
to-day I will put on a pair of loose easy 
palatable boots and me rendre chez vous. 
I continue increasing my letter [Letter 94] 
to George to send it by one of Birkbeck's 
sons who is going out soon — so if you will 
let me have a few more lines, they will be 
in time. I am glad you got on so well 
with Mons'. le Curd. Is he a nice cler- 
gyman ? — a great deal depends upon a 
cock'd hat and powder — not gunpowder, 
lord love us, but lady-meal, violet-smooth, 
dainty - scented, lilly-white, feather - soft, 
wigsby - dressing, coat - collar - spoiling, 
whisker-reaching, pig-tail-loving, swans- 
down-puffing, parson-sweetening powder. 
I shall call in passing at the Tottenham 
nursery and see if I can find some season- 
able plants for you. That is the nearest 
place — or by our la'kiu or lady kin, that 
is by the virgin Mary's kindred, is there not 
a twig-manufacturer in Walthamstow ? 
Mr. and Mrs. Dilke are coming to dine 
with us to-day. They will enjoy the coun- 
try after Westminster. O there is nothing 



like fine weather, and health, and Books, 
and a fine country, and a contented Mind, 
and diligent habit of reading and thinking, 
and an amulet against the ennui — and, 
please heaven, a little claret wine cool out 
of a cellar a mile deep — with a few or a 
good many ratafia cakes — a rocky basin to 
bathe in, a strawberry bed to say your 
prayers to Flora in, a pad nag to go you 
ten miles or so ; two or three sensible 
people to chat with ; two or three spiteful 
folks to spar with ; two or three odd fishes 
to laugh at and two or three numskulls to 
argue with* — instead of using dumb bells 
on a rainy day — 

[Keats goes on with the same play, dropping 
into the rhymes ' Two or three Posies ' given 
above, p. 251.] 

Good-bye I 've an appointment — can't 
stop pon word — good-bye — now 
don't get up — open the door my- 
self — good-bye — see ye Monday. 
J. K. 

103. TO THE SAME 

[Hampstead, May 1.3, 1819.] 
My dear Fanny — I have a letter from 
George at last — and it contains, consider- 
ing all things, good news — I have been 
with it to-day to Mrs. Wylie's, with whom I 
have left it. I shall have it again as soon 
as possible and then I will walk over and 
read it to you. They are quite well and 
settled tolerably in comfort after a great 
deal of fatigue and harass. They had the 
good chance to meet at Louisville with a 
Schoolfellow of ours. You may expect me 
within three days. I am writing to-night 
several notes concerning this to many of 
my friends. Good night ; God bless you. 
John Keats. 

104. TO WILLIAM HASLAM 

[Postmark, Hampstead, May 13, 1819.] 
My dear Haslam — We have news at 
last — and tolerably good — they have not 



376 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



gone to the Settlement — they are both in 
good Health — I read the letter to Mrs. 
Wylie today and requested her after her 
Sons had read it — they would enclose it 
to you immediately which was faithfully 
promised. Send it me like Lightning that 
I may take it to Walthamstow. 
Yours ever and amen, 

John Keats. 

105. to fanny keats 

[Hampstead, May 26, 1819.] 
My dear Fanny — I have been looking 
for a fine day to pass at Walthamstow : 
there has not been one Morning (except 
Sunday and then I was obliged to stay at 
home) that I could depend upon. I have 
I am sorry to say had an accident with the 
Letter — I sent it to Haslam and he re- 
turned it torn into a thousand pieces. So I 
shall be obliged to tell you all I can remem- 
ber from Memory. You would have heard 
from me before this but that I was in con- 
tinual expectation of a fine Morning — I 
want also to speak to you concerning myself. 
Mind I do not purpose to quit England, as 
George has done ; but I am afraid I shall 
be forced to take a voyage or two. How- 
ever we will not think of that for some 
Months. Should it be a fine morning to- 
morrow you will see me. 

Your affectionate Brother John . 

106. TO MISS JEFFREY 

C. Brown, Esqre's Wentworth Place, 
Hampstead [Postmark May 31, 1819]. 

My dear Lady — I was making a day 
or two ago a general conflagration of all 
old Letters and Memorandums, which had 
become of no interest to me — I made, 
however, like the Barber-inquisitor in Don 
Quixote some reservations — among the 
rest your and your Sister's Letters. I as- 
sure you you had not entirely vanished 
from my Mind, or even become shadows in 
my remembrance : it only needed such a 



memento as your Letters to bring you back 
to me. Why have I not written before ? 
Why did I not answer your Honiton Let- 
ter ? I had no good news for you — every 
concern of ours, (ours I wish I could say) 
and still I must say ours — though George 
is in America and I have no Brother left. 
Though in the midst of my troubles I had 
no relation except my young sister — I 
have had excellent friends. Mr. B. at 
whose house I now am, invited me, — I 
have been with him ever since. I could 
not make up my mind to let you know 
these things. Nor should I now — but see 
what a little interest will do — I want you 
to do me a Favor ; which I will first ask 
and then tell you the reasons. Enquire in 
the Villages round Teignmouth if there is 
any Lodging commodious for its cheap- 
ness ; and let me know where it is and 
what price. I have the choice as it were 
of two Poisons (yet I ought not to call this 
a Poison) the one is voyaging to and from 
India for a few years ; the other is leading 
a fevrous life alone with Poetry — This 
latter will suit me best ; for I cannot re- 
solve to give up my Studies. 

It strikes me it would not be quite so 
proper for you to make such inquiries — so 
give my love to your mother and ask her 
to do it. Yes, I would rather conquer my 
indolence and strain my nerves at some 
grand Poem than to be in a dunder-headed 
indiaman. Pray let no one in Teignmouth 
know anything of this. Fanny must by 
this time have altered her name — perhaps 
you have also — are you all alive ? Give 

my Compts to Mrs. your Sister. I 

have had good news, (tho' 't is a queerish 
world in which such things are call'd good) 
from George — he and his wife are well. I 
will tell you more soon. Especially don't 
let the Newfoundland fishermen know it — 
and especially no one else. I have been 
always till now almost as careless of the 
world as a fly — my troubles were all of 
the Imagination — My Brother George al- 
ways stood between me and any dealings 



TO MISS JEFFREY 



377 



with tbe world. Now I find I must buffet 
it — I must take my stand upon some van- 
tage ground and begin to fight — I must 
choose between despair and Energy — I 
choose the latter — though the world has 
taken on a quakerish look with me, which 
I once thought was impossible — 

' Nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendour in the grass and glory in the 
flower.' 



thouoht this 



Melancholist's 



I once 
dream — 

But why do I speak to you in this man- 
ner ? No believe me I do not write for a 
mere selfish purpose — the manner in which 
I have written of myself will convince you. 
I do not do so to Strangers. I have not 
quite made up my mind. Write me on 
the receipt of this — and again at your 
Leisure ; between whiles you shall hear 
from me again — 

Your sincere friend John Keats. 

107. TO THE SAME 

Wentworth Place, [Postmark, June 9, 1819]. 

My dear young Lady — I am exceed- 
ingly obliged by your two letters — Why I 
did not answer your first immediately was 
that I have had a little aversion to the 
South of Devon from the continual remem- 
brance of my Brother Tom. On that ac- 
count I do not return to my old Lodgings 
in Hampstead though the people of the 
house have become friends of mine — This, 
however, I could think nothing of, it can 
do no more than keep one's thoughts em- 
ployed for a day or two. I like your de- 
scription of Bradley very much and I dare 
say shall be there in the course of the sum- 
mer ; it would be immediately but that a 
friend with ill health and to whom I am 
greatly attached call'd on me yesterday 
and proposed my spending a month with 
him at the back of the Isle of Wight. This 
is just the thing at present — the morrow 
will take care of itself — I do not like the 



name of Bishop's Teigntowu — I hope the 
road from Teignmouth to Bradley does 
not lie that way — Your advice about the 
Indiamau is a very wise advice, because it 
just suits me, though you are a little in the 
wrong concerning its destroying the ener- 
gies of Mind ; on the contrary it would be 
the finest thing in the world to strengthen 
them — To be thrown among people who 
care not for you, with whom you have no 
sympathies forces the Mind upon its own 
resources, and leaves it free to make its 
speculations of the difEerences of human 
character and to class them with the calm- 
ness of a Botanist. An Indiamau is a little 
world. One of the great reasons that the 
English have produced the finest writers 
in the world is, that the English world has 
ill treated them during their lives and 
foster'd them after their deaths. They 
have in general been trampled aside into 
the bye paths of life and seen the fester- 
ings of Society. They have not been 
treated like the Raphaels of Italy. And 
where is the Englishman and Poet who has 
given a magnificent Entertainment at the 
christening of one of his Hero's Horses as 
Boyardo did ? He had a Castle in the 
Apennine. He was a noble Poet of Ro- 
mance ; not a miserable and mighty Poet 
of the human Heart. The middle age of 
Shakspeare was all c[l]ouded over ; his 
days were not more happy than Hamlet's 
who is perhaps more like Shakspeare him- 
self in his common everyday Life tlian any 
other of his Characters — Ben Johnson 
(sic) was a common Soldier and in the Low 
countries, in the face of two armies, fought 
a single combat with a freneh Trooper and 
slew him — For all this I will not go on 
board an Indiamau, nor for example's sake 
run my head into dark alleys : I dare say 
my discipline is to come, and plenty of it 
too. I have been very idle lately, very 
averse to writing ; both from the over- 
powering idea of our dead poets and from 
abatement of my love of fame. I hope I 
am a little more of a Philosopher than I 



378 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



■was, consequently a little less of a versify- 
ing Pet-lamb. I have put no more in Print 
or you should have had it. You will judge 
of my 1819 temper when I tell you that 
the thing I have most enjoyed this year 
has been writing an ode to Indolence. Why 
did you not make your long-haired sister 
put her great brown hard fist to paper and 
cross your Letter? Tell her when you 
write again that I expect chequer work — 
My friend Mr. Brown is sitting opposite 
me employed in writing a Life of David. 
He reads me passages as he writes them 
stuffing my infidel mouth as though I were 
a young rook — Infidel Rooks do not pro- 
vender with Elisha's Ravens. If he goes 
on as he has begun your new Church had 
better not proceed, for parsons will be su- 
perseeded (^sic) — and of course the Clerks 
must follow. Give my love to your Mother 
with the assurance that I can never forget 
her anxiety for my Brother Tom. Believe 
also that I shall ever remember our leave- 
taking with you. 

Ever sincerely yours, John Keats. 

108, TO FANNY KEATS 

Went worth Place [June 9, 1819]. 
My DEAR Fanny — I shall be with you 
next Monday at the farthest. I could not 
keep my promise of seeing you again in a 
week because I am in so unsettled a state 
of mind about what I am to do — I have 
given up the Idea of the Indiaman ; I can- 
not resolve to give up my favorite studies : 
so I purpose to retire into the Country and 
set my Mind at work once more. A Friend 
of Mine [James Rice] who has an ill state 
of health called on me yesterday and pro- 
posed to spend a little time with him at the 
back of the Isle of Wight where he said 
we might live very cheaply. I agreed to 
his proposal. I have taken a great dislike 
to Town — I never go there — some one is 
always calling on me and as we have spare 
beds they often stop a couple of days. I 
have written lately to some acquaintances 



in Devonshire concerning a cheap Lodging 
and they have been very kind in letting me 
know all I wanted. They have described 
a pleasant place which I think I shall even- 
tually retire to. How came you on with 
my young Master Yorkshire Man ? Did 
not Mrs. A. sport her Carriage and one ? 
They really surprised me with super civility 

— how did Mrs. A. manage it ? How is 
the old tadpole gardener and little Master 
next door ? it is to be hop'd they will both 
die some of these days. Not having been 
to Town I have not heard whether Mr. A. 
purposes to retire from business. Do let 
me know if you have heard anything more 
about it. If he should not I shall be very 
disappointed. If any one deserves to be 
put to his shifts it is that Hodgkinson — 
as for the other he would live a long time 
upon his fat and be none the worse for a 
good long lent. How came miledi to give 
one Lisbon wine — had she drained the 
Gooseberry ? Truly I cannot delay mak- 
ing another visit — asked to take Lunch, 
whether I will have ale, wine, take sugar, 

— objection to green — like cream — thin 
bread and butter — another cup — agreeable 

— enough sugar — little more cream — too 
weak — 12 shillin etc. etc. etc. — Lord I 
must come again. We are just going to 
Dinner I must must \^slc2 with this to the 
Post 

Your affectionate Brother John — . 

109. TO JAMES ELMES^l 

Wentworth Place, Hampstead 
[June 12, 1819]. 

Sir — I did not see your Note till this 
Saturday evening, or I should have an- 
swered it sooner — However as it happens 
I have but just received the Book which 
contains the only copy of the verses in 
question. I have asked for it repeatedly 
ever since I promised Mr. Haydon and 
could not help the delay ; which I regret. 
The verses can be struck out in no time, 
and will I hope be quite in time. If you 



TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 



379 



think it at all necessary a proof may be for- 
warded ; but as I shall transcribe it fairly 
perhaps there may be no need. 
I am, Sir, your obed' Serv' 

John Keats. 

110. TO FANNY KEATS 

Wentworth Place, [June 14, 18191. 

My dear Fanny — I cannot be with 
you to-day for two reasons — 1'^ I have my 
sore-throat coming again to prevent my 
walking. 2'^ I do not happen just at pre- 
sent to be flush of silver so that 1 might 
ride. To-morrow I am engaged — but the 
day after you shall see me. Mr. Brown is 
waiting for me as we are going to Town 
together, so good-bye. 

Your affectionate Brother John. 

111. TO THE SAME 

Wentworth Place [June 16, 1819]. 
My dear Fanny — Still I cannot afford 
to spend money by Coachhire and still my 
throat is not well enough to warrant my 
walking. I went yesterday to ask Mr. Ab- 
bey for some money ; but I could not on 
account of a Letter he showed me from my 
Aunt's solicitor. You do not understand 
the business. I trust it will not in the end 
be detrimental to you. I am going to try 
the Press once more, and to that end shall 
retire to live cheaply in the country and 
compose myself and verses as well as I can. 
I have very good friends ready to help me 
— and I am the more bound to be careful 
of the money they lend me. It will all be 
well in the course of a year I hope. I am 
confident of it, so do not let it trouble you 
at all. Mr. Abbey showed me a Letter he 
had received from George containing the 
news of the birth of a Niece for us — and 
all doing well — he said he would take it 
to you — so I suppose to-day you will see 
it. 1 was preparing to enquire for a situa- 
tion with an apothecary, but Mr. Brown 
persuades me to try the press once more ; 



so I will with all my industry and ability. 
Mr. Rice a friend of mine in ill health has 
proposed retiring to the back of the Isle of 
Wight — which I hope will be cheap in the 
summer — I am sure it will in the winter. 
Thence you shall frequently hear from me 
in the Letters I will copy those lines I may 
write which will be most pleasing to you in 
the confidence you will show them to no 
one. I have not run quite aground yet I 
hoi^e, having written this morning to several 
people to whom I have lent money request- 
ing repayment. I shall henceforth shake 
off my indolent fits, and among other re- 
formation be more diligent in writing to 
you, and mind you always answer me. I 
shall be obliged to go out of town on Satur- 
day and shall have no money till to-morrow, 
so I am very sorry to think I shall not be 
able to come to Walthamstow. The Head 
Mr. Severn did of me is now too dear, but 
here inclosed is a very capital Profile done 
by Mr. Brown. I will write again on Mon- 
day or Tuesday — Mr. and Mrs. Dilke are 
well. 

Your affectionate Brother John . 

112. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 

Wentworth Place. 
Thursday Morning [June 17, 1819]. 

My dear Haydon — I know you will 
not be prepared for this, because your 
Pocket must needs be very low having been 
at ebb tide so long : but what can I do ? 
mine is lower. I was the day before yes- 
terday much in want of Money : but some 
news I had yesterday has driven me into 
necessity. I went to Abbey's for some 
Cash, and he put into my hand a letter 
from my Aunt's Solicitor containing the 
pleasant information that she was about to 
file a Bill in Chancery against us. Now in 
case of a defeat Abbey will be very unde- 
servedly in the wrong box ; so I could not 
ask him for any more money, nor can I till 
the affair is decided; and if it goes against 
him I must in conscience make over to him 



38o 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



what little he may have remaining. My 
purpose is now to make one more attempt 
in the Press — if that fail, ' ye hear no 
more of me ' as Chaucer says. Brown has 
lent me some money for the present. Do 
borrow or beg somehow what you can for 
me. Do not suppose I am at all uncom- 
fortable about the matter in any other way 
than as it forces me to apply to the needy. 
I could not send you those lines, for I could 
not get the only copy of them before last 
Saturday evening. I sent them Mr. Elmes 
on Monday. I saw Monkhouse on Sunday 
— he told me you were getting on with the 
Picture. I would have come over to you 
to-day, but I am fully employed. 

Yours ever sincerely John Keats. 

113. TO FANNY BKAWNE 

Shanklin, Isle of Wight, Thursday, 
[Postmark, Newport, July 3, 1819]. 

My dearest Lady — I am glad I had 
not an opportunity of sending off a Letter 
which I wrote for you on Tuesday night — 
't was too much like one out of Rousseau's 
Heloise. I am more reasonable this morn- 
ing. The morning is the only proper time 
for me to write to a beautiful Girl whom I 
love so much : for at night, when the lonely 
day has closed, and the lonely, silent, un- 
musical Chamber is waiting to receive me 
as into a Sepulchre, then believe me my 
passion gets entirely the sway, then I would 
not have you see those Rhapsodies which I 
once thought it impossible I should ever 
give way to, and which I have often 
laughed at in another, for fear you should 
[think me] either too unhappy or perhaps 
a little mad. I am now at a very pleasant 
Cottage window, looking onto a beautiful 
hilly country, with a glimpse of the sea ; 
the morning is very fine. I do not know 
how elastic my spirit might be, what plea- 
sure I might have in living here and breath- 
ing and wandering as free as a stag about 
this beautiful Coast if the remembrance of 
you did not weigh so upon me. I have 



never known any unalloy'd Happiness for 
many days together : the death or sickness 
of some one has always spoilt my hours — 
and now when none such troubles oppress 
me, it is you must confess very hard that 
another sort of pain should haunt me. Ask 
yourself my love whether you are not very 
cruel to have so entrammelled me, so de- 
stroyed my freedom. Will you confess 
this in the Letter you must write immedi- 
ately and do all you can to console me in 
it — make it rich as a draught of poppies i 
to intoxicate me — write the softest words I 
and kiss them that I may at least touch my 
lips where yours have been. For myself I 
know not how to express my devotion to so 
fair a form : I want a brighter word than 
bright, a fairer word than fair. I almost 
wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three 
summer days — three such days with you I 
could fill with more delight than fifty com- 
mon years could ever contain. But how- 
ever selfish I may feel, I am sure I could 
never act selfishly : as I told you a day or 
two before I left Hampstead, I will never 
return to London if my Fate does not turn 
up Pam or at least a Court-card. Though 
I could centre my Happiness in you, I can- 
not expect to engross your heart so en- 
tirely — indeed if I thought you felt as 
much for me as I do for you at this mo- 
ment I do not think I could restrain myself 
from seeing you again tomorrow for the 
delight of one embrace. But no — I must 
live upon hope and Chance. In case of the 
worst that can happen, I shall still love 
you — but what hatred shall I have for 
another ! Some lines I read the other day 
are continually ringing a peal in my ears : 

To see those eyes I prize above mine own 
Dart favors on another — 

And those sweet lips (yielding immortal nectar) 
Be gently press'd by any but myself — 
Think, think Francesca, what a cursed thing 
It were beyond expression ! 

t) . 

Do write immediately. There is no Post 
from this Place, so you must address Post 



TO FANNY KEATS 



381 



Office, Newport, Isle of Wight. I know 
before night I shall curse myself for hav- 
ing sent you so cold a Letter ; yet it is 
better to do it as much in my senses as 
possible. Be as kind as the distance will 
permit to your 

J. Keats. 

Present my Compliments to your mother, 
my love to Margaret and best remem- 
brances to your Brother — if you please so. 

114. TO FANNY KEATS 

Shanklin, Isle of Wight, 
Tuesday, July 6, [1819]. 

My dear Fanny — I have just received 
another Letter from George — full of as 
good news as we can expect. I cannot in- 
close it to you as I could wish because it 
I contains matters of Business to which I 
must for a Week to come have an immedi- 
ate reference. I think I told you the pur- 
pose for which I retired to this place — to 
try the fortune of my Pen once more, and 
indeed I have some confidence in my suc- 
cess: but in every event, believe me my 
dear sister, I shall be sufficiently comfort- 
able, as, if I cannot lead that life of com- 
: petence and society I should wish, I have 
I enough knowledge of my gallipots to ensure 
me an employment and maintenance. The 
Place I am in now I visited once before 
and a very pretty place it is were it not for 
the bad weather. Our window looks over 
house-tops and Cliffs onto the Sea, so that 
when the Ships sail past the Cottage chim- 
neys you may take them for weathercocks. 
We have Hill and Dale, forest and Mead, 
and plenty of Lobsters. I was on the Ports- 
mouth Coach the Sunday before last in 
that heavy shower — and I may say I went 
to Portsmouth by water — I got a little 
cold, and as it always flies to my throat I 
am a little out of sorts that way. There 
were on the Coach with me some common 
French people but very well behaved — 
there was a woman amongst them to whom 
the poor Men in ragged coats were more 



gallant than ever I saw gentleman to Lady 
at a Ball. When we got down to walk up 
hill — one of them pick'd a rose, and on 
remounting gave it to the woman with 
' Ma'mselle voila une belle rose ! ' I am so 
bard at work that perhaps I should' not 
have written to you for a day or two if 
George's Letter had not diverted my atten- 
tion to the interests and pleasure of those I 
love — and ever believe that when I do not 
behave punctually it is from a very neces- 
sary occupation, and that my silence is no 
proof of my not thinking of you, or that I 
want more than a gentle fillip to bring your 
image with every claim before me. You 
have never seen mountains, or I might tell 
you that the hill at Steephill is I think 
almost of as much consequence as Mount 
Rydal on Lake Winander. Bonchurch too 
is a very delightful Place — as I can see 
by the Cottages, all romantic — covered 
with creepers and honeysuckles, with roses 
and eglantines peeping in at the windows. 
Fit abodes for the People I guess live in 
them, romantic old maids fond of novels, 
or soldiers' widows with a pretty jointure 
— or any body's widows or aunts or any- 
things given to Poetry and a Piano-forte — 
as far as in 'em lies — as people say. If I 
could play upon the Guitar I might make 
my fortune with an old song — and get two 
blessings at once — a Lady's heart and the 
Rheumatism. But I am almost afraid to 
peep at those little windows — for a pretty 
window should show a pretty face, and as 
the world goes chances are against me. I 
am living with a very good fellow indeed, 
a Mr. Rice. — He is unfortunately labour- 
ing under a complaint which has for some 
years been a burthen to him. This is a pain 
to me. He has a greater tact in speaking 
to people of the village than I have, and in 
those matters is a great amusement as well 
as good friend to me. He bought a ham 
the other day for says he ' Keats, I don't 
think a Ham is a wrong thing to have in a 
liouse.' Write to me, Shanklin, Isle of 
Wight, as soon as you can ; for a Letter is 



382 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



a great treat to me here — believing me 
ever, 

Your affectionate Brother John . 

115. TO FANNY BRAWNB 

July 8, [1819]. 
My sweet Girl — Your Letter gave me 
more delight than any thing in the world 
but yourself could do; indeed I am almost 
astonished that any absent one should have 
that luxurious power over my senses which 
I feel. Even when I am not thinking of 
you I receive your influence and a tenderer 
nature stealing upon me. All my thoughts, 
my unhappiest days and nights, have I find 
not at all cured me of my love of Beauty, 
but made it so intense that I am miserable 
that you are not with me : or rather breathe 
in that dull sort of patience that cannot be 
called Life. I never knew before, what 
such a love as you have made me feel, was; 
I did not believe in it; my Fancy was 
afraid of it, lest it should burn me up. 
But if you will fully love me, though there 
may be some fire, 't will not be more than 
we can bear when moistened and bedewed 
with Pleasures. You mention ' horrid peo- 
ple ' and ask me whether it depend upon 
them whether I see you again. Do under- 
stand me, my love, in this. I have so much 
of you in my heart that I must turn Men- 
tor when I see a chance of harm befalling 
you. I would never see any thing but 
Pleasure in your eyes, love on your lips, 
and Happiness in your steps. I would wish 
to see you among those amusements suit- 
able to your inclinations and spirits; so 
that our loves might be a delight in the 
midst of Pleasures agreeable enough, rather 
than a resource from vexations and cares. 
But I doubt much, in case of the worst, 
whether I shall be philosopher enough to 
follow my own Lessons: if I saw my reso- 
lution give you a pain I could not. Why 
may I not speak of your Beauty, since 
without that I could never have lov'd you ? 
— I cannot conceive any beginning of such 



love as I have for you but Beauty. There 
may be a sort of love for which, without 
the least sneer at it, I have the highest 
respect and can admire it in others : but it 
has not the richness, the bloom, the full 
form, the enchantment of love after my 
own heart. So let me speak of your Beauty, 
though to my own endangering; if you could 
be so cruel to me as to try elsewhere its 
Power. You say you are afraid I shall 
think you do not love me — in saying this 
you make me ache the more to be near you. 
I am at the diligent use of my faculties 
here, I do not pass a day without sprawling 
some blank verse or tagging some rhymes; 
and here I must confess, that (since I am 
on that subject) I love you the more in 
that I believe you have liked me for my 
own sake and for nothing else. I have met 
with women whom I really think would 
like to be married to a Poem and to be 
given away by a Novel. I have seen your 
Comet, and only wish it was a sign that 
poor Rice would get well whose illness 
makes him rather a melancholy companion: 
and the more so as to conquer his feelings 
and hide them from me, with a forc'd 
Pun. I kiss'd your writing over in the 
hope you had indulg'd me by leaving a 
trace of honey. What was your dream ? 
Tell it me and I will tell you the inter- 
pretation thereof. 

Ever yours, my love ! 

John Keats. 
Do not accuse me of delay — we have 
not here an opportunity of sending letters 
every day. Write speedily. 

116. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 

Extract from a letter dated Shanklin, 
n' Ryde, Isle of Wight, Sunday, 
July 12 [for 11] 1819. 

You will be glad to hear, under my own 
hand (though Rice says we are like Saun- 
tering Jack and Idle Joe), how diligent I 
have been, and am biing. I have finished 



TO FANNY BRAWNE 



383 



the Act, lOtho the Great, i] and in the inter- 
val of beginning the 2'' have proceeded 
pretty well with Lamia, finishing the 1°' 
part which consists of about 400 lines. I 
have great hopes of success, because I make 
use of my Judgment more deliberately than 
I have yet done ; but in case of failure with 
the world, I shall find my content. And 
here (as I know you have my good at heart 
as much as a Brother), I can only repeat to 
you what I have said to George — that 
however I should like to enjoy what the 
competencies of life procure, I am in no 
wise dashed at a different prospect. 1 
have spent too many thoughtful days and 
moralised through too many nights for 
that, and fruitless would they be indeed, if 
they did not by degrees make me look upon 
the affairs of the world with a healthy de- 
libration. I have of late been moulting : 
not for fresh feathers and wings : they are 
gone, and in their stead I hope to have a 
pair of patient sublunary legs. I have al- 
tered, not from a Chrysalis into a butterfly, 
but the contrary ; having two little loop- 
holes, whence I may look out into the stage 
of the world : and that world on our coming 
here I almost forgot. The first time I sat 
down to write, I could scarcely believe in the 
necessity for so doing. It struck me as a 
great oddity — Yet the very corn which is 
now so beautiful, as if it had only took to 
ripening yesterday, is for the market ; so, 
why should I be delicate ? 



117. TO FA3SNY BRAWNE 

Shanklin, Thursday Evening 
[July 15, 1819?] 

My love — I have been in so irritable 
a state of health these two or three last 
days, that I did not think I should be able 
to write this week. Not that I was so ill, 
but so much so as only to be capable of an 
unhealthy teasing letter. To night I am 
greatly recovered only to feel the languor 
I have felt after you touched with ardency. 



You say you perhaps might have made me 
better: you would then have made me worse: 
now you could quite effect a cure : What 
fee my sweet Physician would I not give 
you to do so. Do not call it folly, when I 
tell you I took your letter last night to bed 
with me. In the morning I found your 
name on the sealing wax obliterated. I 
was startled at the bad omen till I recol- 
lected that it must have happened in my 
dreams, and they you know fall out by con- 
traries. You must have found out by this 
time I am a little given to bode ill like the 
raven; it is my misfortune not my fault; it 
has proceeded from the general tenor of 
the circumstances of my life, and rendered 
every event suspicious. However I will no 
more trouble either you or myself with sad 
prophecies ; though so far I am pleased at 
it as it has given me opportunity to love 
your disinterestedness towards me. I can 
be a raven no more ; you and pleasure 
take possession of me at the same moment. 
I am afraid you have been unwell. If 
through me illness have touched j'ou (but 
it must be with a very gentle hand) I must 
be selfish enough to feel a little glad at it. 
Will you forgive me this ? I have been 
reading lately an oriental tale of a very 
beautiful color ^^ — It is of a city of melan- 
choly men, all made so by this circum- 
stance. Through a series of adventures 
each one of them by turns reach some gar- 
dens of Paradise where they meet with 
a most enchanting Lady; and just as they 
are going to embrace her, she bids them 
shut their eyes — they shut them — and on 
opening their eyes again find themselves 
descending to the earth in a magic basket. 
The remembrance of this Lady and their 
delights lost beyond all recovery render 
them melancholy ever after. How I ap- 
plied this to you, my dear ; how I palpi- 
tated at it ; how the certainty that you 
were in the same woi-ld with myself, and 
though as beautiful, not so talismanic as 
that Lady ; how I could not bear you should 
be so you must believe because I swear it 



384 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



by yourself. I cannot say when I shall get 
a volume ready. I have three or four 
stories half done, but as I cannot write for 
the mere sake of the press, I am obliged to 
let them progress or lie still as my fancy 
chooses. By Christmas perhaps they may 
appear, but I am not yet sure they ever 
will. 'T will be no matter, for Poems are 
as common as newspapers and I do not see 
why it is a greater crime in me than in an- 
other to let the verses of an half-fledged 
brain tumble into the reading-rooms and 
drawing - room windows. Rice has been 
better lately than usual: he is not suffering 
from any neglect of his parents who have 
for some years been able to appreciate him 
better than they did in his first youth, and 
are now devoted to his comfort. Tomorrow 
I shall, if my health continues to improve 
during the night, take a look fa[r]ther 
about the country, and spy at the parties 
about here who come hunting after the 
picturesque like beagles. It is astonishing 
how they raven down scenery like children 
do sweetmeats. The wondrous Chine here 
is a very great Lion: I wish I had as many 
guineas as there have been spy-glasses in 
it. I have been, I cannot tell why, in capi- 
tal spirits this last hour. What reason ? 
When I have to take my candle and retire 
to a lonely room, without the thought as I 
fall asleep, of seeing you tomorrow morn- 
ing ? or the next day, or the next — it 
takes on the appearance of impossibility 
and eternity — I will say a month — I will 
say I will see you in a monj;h at most, 
though no one but yourself should see me ; 
if it be but for an hour. I should not like 
to be so near you as London without being 
continually with you : after having once 
more kissed you Sweet I would rather be 
here alone at my task than in the bustle 
and hateful literary chitchat. Meantime 
you must write to me — as I will every 
week — for your letters keep me alive. My 
sweet Girl I cannot speak my love for you. 
Good night ! and 

Ever yours John Keats. 



118. TO THE SAME 

Sunday Night. [Postmark, July 27, 1819.] 
My sweet Girl — I hope you did not 
blame me much for not obeying your re- 
quest of a Letter on Saturday : we have 
had four in our small room playing at cards 
night and morning leaving me no undis- 
turb'd opportunity to write. Now Rice and 
Martin are gone I am at liberty. Brown to 
my sorrow confirms the account you give of 
your ill health. You cannot conceive how 
I ache to be with you: how I would die for 

one hour for what is in the world ? I 

say you cannot conceive ; it is impossible 
you should look with such eyes upon me as 
I have upon you: it cannot be. Forgive me 
if I wander a little this evening, for 1 have 
been all day employ'd in a very abstract 
Poem and I am in deep love with you — 
two things which must excuse me. I have, 
believe me, not been an age in letting you 
take possession of me; the very first week 
I knew you I wrote myself your vassal; 
but burnt the Letter as the very next time 
I saw you I thought you manifested some 
dislike to me. If you should ever feel for 
Man at the first sight what I did for you, 
I am lost. Yet I should not quarrel with 
you, but hate myself if such a thing were 
to happen — only I should burst if the thing 
were not as fine as a Man as you are as a 
Woman. Perhaps I am too vehement, then 
fancy me on my knees, especially when I 
mention a part of your Letter which hurt 
me; you say speaking of Mr. Severn 'but 
you must be satisfied in knowing that I 
admired you much more than your friend.' 
My dear love, I cannot believe there ever 
was or ever could be any thing to admire 
in me especially as far as sight goes — I 
cannot be admired, I am not a thing to be 
admired. You are, I love you; all I can 
bring you is a swooning admiration of your 
Beauty. I hold that place among Men 
which snub-nos'd brunettes with meeting 
eyebrows do among women — they are 
trash to me — unless I should find one 



TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE 



385 



among them with a fire in her heart like 
the one that burns in mine. You absorb 
me in spite of myself — you alone: for I 
look not forward with anj- pleasure to what 
is call'd being settled in the world; I trem- 
ble at domestic cares — yet for you I would 
meet them, though if it would leave you 
the happier I would rather die than do so. 
I have two luxuries to brood over in my 
walks, your Loveliness and the hour of my 
death. O that I could have possession of 
them both in the same minute. I hate the 
world: it batters too much the wings of my 
self-will, and would I could take a sweet 
poison from your lips to send me out of it. 
From no others would I take it. I am in- 
deed astonish'd to find myself so careless 
of all charms but yours -^ remembering as 
I do the time when even a bit of ribband 
was a matter of interest with me. What 
softer words can I find for you after this — 
what it is I will not read. Nor will I say 
more here, but in a Postscript answer any 
thing else you may have mentioned in your 
Letter in so many words — for I am dis- 
tracted with a thousand thoughts. I will 
imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, 
pray to your star like a Heathen. 

Your's ever, fair Star, John Keats. 

My seal is mark'd like a family table 
cloth with my Mother's initial F for Fanny: 
put between my Father's initials. You will 
soon hear from me again. My respectful 
Compliments to your Mother. Tell Mar- 
garet I '11 send her a reef of best rocks 
and tell Sam I will give him my light bay 
hunter if he will tie the Bishop hand and 
foot and pack him in a hamper and send 
him down for me to bathe him for his 
health with a Necklace of good snubby 
stones about his Neck. 

110. TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE 

Shanklin, Saturday Evening [July 31, 1819]. 
My dear Dilke — I will not make my 
diligence an excuse for not writing to you 



sooner — because I consider idleness a 
much better plea. A Man in the hurry of 
business of any sort is expected and ought 
to be expected to look to everything — 
his mind is in a whirl, and what matters 
it what whirl ? But to require a Letter 
of a Man lost in idleness is the utmost 
cruelty ; you cut the thread of his exist- 
ence, you beat, you pummel him, you sell 
liis goods and chattels, you put him in 
prison ; you impale him ; you crucify him. 
If I had not put pen to paper since I saw 
you this would be to me a vi et arm is tak- 
ing np before the Judge ; but having got 
over my darling lounging habits a little, it 
is with scarcely any pain I come to this 
dating from Shanklin and Dear Dilke. 
The Isle of Wight is but so so, etc. Rice 
and I passed rather a dull time of it. I 
hope he will not repent coming with me. 
He was unwell, and I was not in very good 
health : and I am afraid we made each 
other worse by acting upon each other's 
spirits. We would grow as melancholy as 
need be. I confess I cannot bear a sick 
person in a House, especially alone — it 
weighs upon me day and night — and more 
so when perhaps the Case is irretrievable. 
Indeed I think Rice is in a dangerous 
state. I have had a Letter from him which 
speaks favourably of his health at present. 
Brown and I are pretty well harnessed 
again to our dog-cart. I mean the Tra- 
gedy, which goes on sinkingly. We are 
thinking of introducing an Elephant, but 
have not historical reference within reach 
to determine us as to Otho's Menagerie. 
When Brown first mentioned this I took it 
for a joke ; however he brings such plausible 
reasons, and discourses so eloquently on the 
dramatic effect that I am giving it a seri- 
ous consideration. The Art of Poetry is 
not sufficient for us, and if we get on in 
that as well as we do in painting, we shall 
by next winter crush the Reviews and 
the Royal Academy. Indeed, if Brown 
would take a little of my advice, he could 
not fail to be first palette of his day. But 



386 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



odd as it may appear, he says plainly that he 
cannot see any force in my plea of putting- 
skies in the background, and leaving Indian 
ink out of an ash tree. The other day he 
was sketching Shanklin Church, and as I 
saw how the business was going on, I chal- 
lenged him to a trial of skill — he lent me 
Pencil and Paper — we keep the Sketches 
to contend for the Prize at the Gallery. I 
will not say whose I think best — but really 
I do not think Brown's done to the top of 
the Art. 

A word or two on the Isle of Wight. I 
have been no further than Steephill. If I 
may guess, I should say that there is no 
finer part in the Island than from this 
Place to Steephill. I do not hesitate to say 
it is fine. Bonchurch is the best. But I 
have been so many finer walks, with a back- 
ground of lake and mountain instead of the 
sea, that I am not much touch'd with it, 
though I credit it for all the Surprise I 
should have felt if it had taken my cockney 
maidenhead. But I may call myself an old 
Stager in the picturesque, and unless it be 
something very large and overpowering, I 
cannot receive any extraordinary relish. 

I am sorry to hear that Charles is so 
much oppress'd at Westminster, though I 
am sure it will be the finest touchstone for 
his Metal in the world. His troubles will 
grow day by day less, as his age and 
strength increase. The very first Battle 
he wins will lift him from the Tribe of 
Manasseh. I do not know how I should 
feel were I a Father — but I hope I should 
strive with all my Power not to let the 
present trouble me. When your Boy shall 
be twenty, ask him about his childish 
troubles and he will have no more memory 
of them than you have of yours. Brown 
tells me Mrs. Dilke sets off to-day for 
Chichester. I am glad — I was going to 
say she had a fine day — but there has 
been a great Thunder cloud muttering over 
Hampshire all day — I hope she is now at 
supper with a good appetite. 

So Reynolds's Piece succeeded — that 



is all well. Papers have with thanks been 
duly received. We leave this place on the 
13th, and will let you know where we may 
be a few days after — Brown says he will 
write when the fit comes on him. If you 
will stand law expenses I '11 beat him into 
one before his time. When I come to town 
I shall have a little talk with you about _ 
Brown and one Jenny Jacobs. Open day- 1. 
light ! he don't care. I anti afraid there * 
will be some more feet for little stockings 
— [of Keats' s making. ([ mean the feet.*y] 
Brown here tried at a piece of Wit but it 
failed him, as you see, thongh long a brew- 
ing — [this is a 2* lie.*^ Men should never 
despair — you see he has tried again and 
succeeded to a miracle. — He wants to try 
again, but as I have a right to an inside 
place in my own Letter — I take posses- 
sion. 

Your sincere friend John Keats. 

120. TO FANNY BRAWNE 

Shanklin, Thursday Night. 
[Postmark, Newport, August 9, 1819.] 

My dear Girl — You say you must not 
have any more such Letters as the last : 
I '11 try that you shall not by running 
obstinate the other way. Indeed I have 
not fair play — I am not idle enough for 
proper downright love-letters — I leave 
this minute a scene in our Tragedy [Otho 
the Great] and see you (think it not 
blasphemy) through the mist of Plots, 
speeches, counterplots and counterspeeches. 
The Lover is madder than I am — I am 
nothing to him — he has a figure like the 
Statue of Meleager and double distilled 
fire in his heart. Thank God for my dili- 
gence ! were it not for that I should be 
miserable. I encourage it, and strive not 
to think of you — but when I have suc- 
ceeded in doing so all day and as far as 
midnight, you return, as soon as this arti- 
ficial excitement goes off, more severely 
from the fever I am left in. Upon my soul 
* The bracketed portions are by Brown. 



TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 



387 



I cannofc say what you could like rae for. 
I do not think myself a fright any more 
than I do Mr. A., Mr. B., and Mr. C. — 
yet if I were a woman I should not like A. 
B. C. But enough of this. So you intend 
to hold me to my promise of seeing you in 
a short time. I shall keep it with as much 
sorrow as gladness : for I am not one of the 
Paladins of old who liv'd upon water grass 
and smiles for years together. What 
though would I not give tonight for the 
gratification of my eyes alone ? This day 
week we shall move to Winchester ; for I 
feel the want of a Library. Brown will 
leave me there to pay a visit to Mr. Snook 
at Bedhampton : in his absence I will flit 
to you and back. I will stay very little 
while, for as I am in a train of writing now 
I fear to disturb it — let it have its 
course bad or good — in it I shall try my 
own strength and the public pulse. At 
Winchester I shall get your Letters more 
readily ; and it being a cathedral City I 
shall have a pleasure always a great one to 
me when near a Cathedral, of reading them 
during the service up and down the Aisle. 

Friday Morning. — Just as I had written 
thus far last night, Brown came down in 
his morning coat and nightcap, saying 
he had been refresh'd by a good sleep and 
was very hungry. I left him eating and 
went to bed, being too tired to enter into 
any discussions. You would delight very 
greatly in the walks about here ; the Cliffs, 
woods, hills, sands, rocks &c. about here. 
They are however not so fine but I shall 
give tliem a hearty good bye to exchange 
them for my Cathedral. — Yet again I am 
not so tired of Scenery as to hate Switzer- 
land. We might spend a pleasant year 
at Berne or Zurich — if it should please 
Venus to hear my 'Beseech thee to hear 
us O Goddess.' And if she should hear, 
God forbid we should what people call, 
<iettle — turn into a pond, a stagnant Lethe 

a vile crescent, row or buildings. Better 
be imprudent moveables than prudent fix- 



tures. Open my Mouth at the Street 
door like the Lion's head at Venice to re- 
ceive hateful cards, letters, messages. Go 
out and wither at tea parties ; freeze at 
dinners ; bake at dances ; simmer at routs. 
No my love, trust yourself to me and I 
will find you nobler amusements, fortune 
favouring. I fear you will not receive this 
till Sunday or Monday : as the Irishman 
would write do not in the meanwhile hate 
me. I long to be off for Winchester, for I 
begin to dislike the very door-posts here — 
the names, the pebbles. You ask after my 
health, not telling me whether you are bet- 
ter. I am quite well. Your going out is no 
proof that you are : how is it ? Late hours 
will do you great harm. What fairing is 
it ? I was alone for a couple of days while 
Brown went gadding over the country with 
his ancient knapsack. Now I like his 
society as well as any Man's, yet regretted 
his return — it broke in upon me like a 
Thunderbolt. I had got in a dream among 
my Books — really luxuriating in a solitude 
and silence you alone should have disturb'd. 
Your ever affectionate John I^eats. 



121. TO BENJAMIN BAII^Y 

[Fragment (outside sheet) of a letter addressed 
to Bailey at St, Andrews. 

Winchester, August 15, 1819]. 

We removed to Winchester for the con- 
venience of a library, and find it an exceed- 
ing pleasant town, enriched with a beautiful 
Cathedral and surrounded by a fresh-look- 
ing country. We are in tolerably good 
and cheap lodgings — Within these two 
months I have written loOO lines, most of 
which, besides many more ot prior com- 
position, you will probably see by next win- 
ter. I have written 2 tales, one from 
Boccaccio, called the Pot of Basil, and an- 
other called St. Agnes's Eve, on a popular 
Superstition, and a 3'* called Lamia (half 
finished). I have also been writing parts of 
my ' Hyperion,' and completed 4 Acts of a 



388 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



tragedy. It was the opinion of most of my 
friends that I should never be able to write 
a scans. I will endeavour to wipe away 
the prejudice — I sincerely hope you will 
be pleased when my labours, since we last 
saw each other, shall reach you. One of 
my Ambitious is to make as great a revolu- 
tion in modern dramatic writing as Kean 
has done in acting. Another to upset 
the drawling of the blue-stocking literary 
world — if in the Course of a few years I 
do these two things, I ought to die content, 
and my friends should drink a dozen of 
claret on my tomb. I am convinced more 
and more every day that (excepting the 
human friend philosopher), a fine writer 
is the most genuine being in the world. 
Shakspeare and the Paradise lost every day 
become greater wonders to me. I look 
upon fine phrases like a lover. I was glad 
to see by a passage of one of Brown's let- 
ters, some time ago, from the North that 
you were in such good spirits. Since that 
you have been married, and in congratu- 
lating you I wish you every continuance 
of them. Present my respects to Mrs. 
Bailey. This sounds oddly to me, and I 
daresay I do it awkwardly enough : but I 
suppose by this time it is nothing new to 
you. Brown's remembrances to you. As 
far as I know, we shall remain at Win- 
chester for a goodish while. 
Ever your sincere friend 

John Keats. 



122. TO FANNY BRAWNE 

Winchester, Au^st 17th. 
[Postmark, August 16, 1819.] 

My dear Girl — what shall I say for 
myself ? I have been here four days and 
not yet written you — 't is true I have had 
many teasing letters of business to dismiss 
— and I have been in the Claws, like a ser- 
pent in an Eagle's, of the last act of our 
Tragedy. This is no excuse ; I know it ; 
I do not presume to offer it. I have no 



right either to ask a speedy answer to let 
me know how lenient you are — I must re- 
main some days in a Mist — 1 see you 
through a Mist : as I daresay you do me by 
this time. Believe in the first Letters I 
wrote you : I assure you I felt as I wrote — 
I could not write so now. The thousand 
images I have had pass through my brain 

— my uneasy spirits — my unguess'd fate 

— all spread as a veil between me and 
you. Remember I have had no idle leisure 
to brood over you — 't is well perhaps I 
have not. I could not have endured the 
throng of jealousies that used to haunt me 
before I had plunged so deeply into imagi- 
nary interests. I would fain, as my sails 
are set, sail on without an interruption for 
a Brace of Months longer — I am in com- 
plete cue — in the fever ; and shall in these 
four Months do an immense deal. This 
Page as my eye skims over it I see is ex- 
cessively unloverlike and ungallant — I 
cannot help it — I am no officer in yawning 
quarters ; no Parson-Roraeo. My Mind is 
heap'd to the full ; stuff'd like a cricket 
ball — if I strive to fill it more it would 
burst. I know the generality of women 
would hate me for this ; that I should have 
so unsoften'd, so hard a Mind as to forget 
them ; forget the brightest realities for the 
dull imaginations of my own Brain. But 
I conjure you to give it a fair thinking ; 
and ask yourself whether 't is not better to 
explain my feelings to you, than write ar- 
tificial Passion. — Besides, you would see 
through it. It would be vain to strive to 
deceive you. 'T is harsh, harsh, I know it. 
My heart seems now made of iron — I 
could not write a proper answer to an invi- 
tation to Idalia. You are my Judge : my 
forehead is on the groimd. You seem 
offended at a little simple innocent childish 
playfulness in my last. I did not seriously 
mean to say that you were endeavouring to 
make me keep my promise. I beg your 
pardon for it. 'Tis but juM your Pride 
should take the alarm — seriously. You 
say I may do as I please — I do not think 



TO JOHN TAYLOR 



389 



with auy conscience I cau ; my cash re- 
sources are for the present stopp'd ; I fear 
for some time. I spend no money, but it 
increases my debts. I have all my life 
thought very little of these matters — they 
seem not to belong to me. It may be a 
proud sentence ; but by Heaven I am as 
entirely above all matters of interest as the 
Sun is above the Earth — and though of 
my o\v» money I should be careless ; of my 
Friends' I must be spare. You see how I 
go on — like so many strokes of a hammer. 
I cannot help it — 1 am impell'd, driven 
to it. I am not happy enough for silken 
Phrases, and silver sentences. I can no 
more use soothing words to you than if I 
were at this moment engaged in a charge 
of Cavalry. Then you will say I should 
not write at all. — Should I not ? This 
Winchester is a fine place : a beautiful 
Cathedral and many other ancient build- 
ings in the Environs. The little coffin of 
a room at Shanklin is changed for a large 
room, where I can promenade at my plea- 
sure — looks out onto a beautiful — blank 
side of a house. It is strange I should like 
it better than the view of the sea from our 
window at Shanklin. I began to hate the 
very posts there — the voice of the old 
Lady over the way was getting a great 
Plague. The Fisherman's face never al- 
tered any more than our black teapot — 
the knob however was knock'd off to my 
little relief. I am getting a great dislike 
of the picturesque ; and can only relish it 
over again by seeing you enjoy it. One of 
the pleasantest things I have seen lately 
was at Cowes. The Regent in his Yatcli 
(I think they spell it) was anchored oppo- 
site — a beautiful vessel — and all the 
Yatchs and boats on the coast were passing 
and repassing it ; and circuiting and tack- 
ing about it in every direction — I never 
beheld anything so silent, light, and grace- 
ful. — As we pass'd over to Southampton, 
there was nearly an accident. There came 
by a Boat well mann'd, with two naval 
officers at the stern. Our Bow-lines took 



the top of their little mast and snapped it 
ofi:' close by the board. Had the mast been 
a little stouter they would have been up- 
set. In so trifling an event I could not 
help admiring our seamen — neither officer 
nor man in the whole Boat moved a muscle 
— they scarcely notic'd it even with words. 
Forgive me for this flint-worded Letter, 
and believe and see that I cannot think of 
you without some sort of energy — though 
mal k propos. Even as I leave off it seems 
to me that a few more moments' thought 
of you would uncrystallize and dissolve me. 
I must not give way to it — but turn to my ' 
writing again — if I fail I shall die hard. 
O my love, your lips are growing sweet 
again to my fancy — I must forget them. 
Ever your aflfectionate Keats. 



123. TO JOHN TAYLOR 

Winchester, Monday morn 
[August 23, 1819.] 
My dear Taylor — ... Brown and 
I have together been engaged (this I 
should wish to remain secret) on a Tragedy 
which I have just finished and from which 
we hope to share moderate profits. ... I 
feel every confidence that, if I choose, I 
may be a popular writer. That I will 
never be ; but for all that I will get a live- 
lihood. I equally dislike the favour of the 
public with the love of a woman. They 
are both a cloying treacle to the wings of 
Independence. I shall ever consider them 
(People) as debtors to me for verses, not 
myself to them for admiration — which I 
can do without. I have of late been indul- 
ging my spleen by composing a preface AT 
them : after all resolving never to write a 
preface at all. ' There are so many verses,' 
would I have said to them, 'give so much 
means for me to buy pleasure with, as a 
relief to my hours of labour ' — You will 
observe at the end of this if you put down 
the letter, 'How a solitary life engenders 
pride and egotism ! ' True — I know it 



39° 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



does : but this pride and egotism will en- 
able me to write finer things than anything 
else could — so I will indulge it. Just so 
much as I am humbled by the genius above 
my grasp am I exalted and look with hate 
and contempt upon the literary world. — 
A drummer-boy who holds out his hand 
familiarly to a field Marshal, — that drum- 
mer-boy with me is the good word and 
favour of the public. Who could wish to 
be among the common-place crowd of the 
little famous — who are each individually 
lost in a throng made up of themselves ? 
Is this worth louting or playing the hypo- 
crite for ? To beg suffrages for a seat on 
the benches of a myriad-aristocracy iu let- 
ters ? This is not wise. — I am not a wise 
man — 'T is pride — I will give you a 
definition of a proud man — He is a man 
who has neither Vanity nor Wisdom — One 
filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither 
can he be wise. Pardon me for hammering 
instead of writing. Remember me to 
Woodhouse Hesseyand all iu Percy Street. 
Ever yours sincerely John Keats. 

124. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 

Winchester, August 25 [1819], 
My dear Reynolds — By this post I 
write to Rice, who will tell you why we 
Lave left Shanklin ; and how we like this 
place. I have indeed scarcely anything 
else to say, leading so monotonous a life, 
except I was to give you a history of sen- 
sations, and day-nightmares. You would 
not find me at all imhappy in it, as all my 
thoughts and feelings which are of the 
selfish nature, home speculations, every 
day continue to make me more iron — I am 
convinced more and more, every day, that 
fine writing is, next to fine doing, the top 
thing in the world ; the Paradise Lost be- 
comes a greater wonder. The more I 
know what my diligence may in time prob- 
ably effect, the more does my heart distend 
with Pride and Obstinacy — I feel it in my 
power to become a popular writer — I feel 



it in my power to refuse the poisonous suf- 
frage of a public. My own being which I 
know to be becomes of more consequence 
to me than the crowds of Shadows in the 
shape of men and women that inhabit a 
kingdom. The soul is a world of itself, and 
has enough to do in its own home. Those 
whom I know already, and who have grown 
as it were 9 part of myself, I could not do 
without : but for the rest of mankind, they 
are as much a dream to me as Milton's 
Hierarchies. I think if I had a free and 
healthy and lasting organisation of heart, 
and lungs as strong as an ox's so as to be A 
able to bear unhurt the shock of extreme Jl 
thought and sensation without weariness, I 
could pass my life very nearly alone though 
it should last eighty years. But I feel my i 
body too weak to support me to the height, l| 
I am obliged continually to check myself, I 
and be nothing. It would be vain for me 
to endeavour after a more reasonable man- 
ner of writing to you. I have nothing to 
speak of but myself, and what can I say 
but what I feel ? If you should have any 
reason to regret this state of excitement in 
me, I will turn the tide of your feelings in 
the right Cliannel, by mentioning that it is 
the only state for the best sort of Poetry — 
that is all I care for, all I live for. Forgive 
me for not filling up the whole sheet ; Let- 
ters become so irksome to me, that the 
next time I leave London I shall petition 
them all to be spared me. To give me 
credit for constancy, and at the same time 
waive letter writing will be the highest 
indulgence I can think of. 
Ever your affectionate friend 

John Keats. 

125. to fanny keats 

Winchester, August 28 [1819]. 
My dear Fanny — You must forgive 
me for suffering so long a space to elapse 
between the dates of my letters. It is more 
than a fortnight since I left Shanklin chiefly 
for the purpose of being near a tolerable 



TO FANNY KEATS 



391 



Library, which after all is not to be found 
in this place. However we like it very 
much: it is the pleasantest Town I ever 
was in, and has the most recommendations 
of any. There is a fine Cathedral which to 
me is always a source of amusement, part 
of it built 1400 years ago; and the more 
modern by a magnificent Man, you may 
have read of in our History, called William 
of Wickham. The wliole town is beauti- 
fully wooded. From the Hill at the east- 
ern extremity you see a prospect of Streets, 
and old Buildings mixed up with Trees. 
Then there are the most beautiful streams 
about I ever saw — full of Trout. There 
is the Foundation of St. Croix about half a 
mile in the fields — a charity greatly abused. 
We have a Collegiate School, a Roman cath- 
olic School; a chapel ditto and a Nunnery! 
and what improves it all is, the fashionable 
inhabitants are all gone to Southampton. 
We are quiet — except a fiddle that now 
and then goes like a gimlet through my 
Ears — our Landlady's son not beiug quite 
a Proficient. I have still been hard at 
work, having completed a Tragedy I think 
I spoke of to you. But there I fear all my 
labour will be thrown away for the present, 
as I hear Mr. Kean is goiug to America. 
For all I can guess I shall remain here till 
the middle of October — when Mr. Brown 
will return to his house at Hampstead; 
whither I shall return with him. I some 
time since sent the Letter I told j'ou I had 
received from George to Haslam with a 
request to let you and Mrs. Wylie see it: 
he sent it back to me for very insufficient 
reasons witliout doing so; and I was so irri- 
tated by it that I would not send it travel- 
ling about by the post any more: besides 
the postage is very expensive. I know 
Mrs. Wylie will think this a great neglect. 
I am sorry to say my temper gets the bet- 
ter of mc — I will not send it again. Some 
correspondence I have had with Mr. Abbey 
about George's affairs — and I must con- 
fess he lias behaved very kindly to me as 
far as the wording of his Letter went. 



Have you heard any further mention of his 
retiring from Business ? I am anxious to 
hear whether Hodgkinson, whose name I 
cannot bear to write, will in any likelihoo.d 
be thrown upon himself. The delightful 
Weather we have had for two Months is 
the highest gratification I could receive — 
no chill'd red noses — no shivering — but 
fair atmosphere to think in — a clean towel 
mark'd with the mangle and a basin of clear 
Water to drench one's face with ten times 
a day: no need of much exercise — a Mile 
a day being quite sufficient. My greatest 
regret is that I have not been well enough 
to bathe though I have been two Months 
by the seaside and live now close to deli- 
cious bathing — Still I enjoy the Weather 
— I adore fine Weather as the greatest 
blessing I can have. Give me Books, fruit, 
French wine and fine weather and a little 
music out of doors, played by somebody I 
do not know — not pay the price of one's 
time for a jig — but a little chance music: 
and I can pass a summer very quietly with- 
out caring much about Fat Louis, fat Re- 
gent or the Duke of Wellington. Why 
have you not written to me ? Because you 
were in expectation of George's Letter and 
so waited ? Mr. Brown is copying out our 
Tragedy of Otho the Great in a superb 
style — better than it deserves ^- there as 
I said is labour in vain for the present. I 
had hoped to give Kean another opportu- 
nity to shine. What can we do now ? There 
is not another actor of Tragedy in all Lon- 
don or Europe. The Covent Garden com- 
pany is execrable. Young is the best among 
them and he is a ranting coxcombical taste- 
less Actor — a Disgust, a Nausea — and yet 
the very best after Kean. What a set of 
barren asses are actors! I should like now 
to promenade round your Gardens — apple- 
tasting — pear - tasting — plum - judging — 
apricot-nibbling — peach-scrunchiog — nec- 
tarine-sucking and Melon-carving. I also 
have a great feeling for antiquated cherries 
full of sugar cracks — and a white currant 
tree kept for company. I admire lolling 



392 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



on a lawn by a water lilied pond to eat 
white cui'rants and see gold-fish: and go to 
the Fair in the Evening if I'm good. There 
is not hope for that — one is sure to get 
into some mess before evening. Have 
these hot days I brag of so much been well 
or ill for your health ? Let me hear soon. 
Your affectionate Brother John . 

126. TO JOHN TAYLOR 

Winchester, September 1, 1819. 

My dear Taylor — Brown and I have 
been employed for these 3 weeks past from 
time to time in vpriting to our different 
friends — a dead silence is our only answer 
— we wait morning after morning. Tues- 
day is the day for the Examiner to arrive, 
this is the 2d Tuesday which has been bar- 
ren even of a newspaper — Men should be 
in imitation of spirits ' responsive to each 
other's note.' Instead of that I pipe and 
no one hath danced. We have been curs- 
ing like Mandeville and Lisle — With this 
I shall send by the same post a 3d letter to 
a friend of mine, who though it is of conse- 
quence has neither answered right or left. 
We have been much in want of news from 
the Theatres, having heard that Kean is 
going to America — but no — not a word. 
Why I should come on you with all these 
complaints I cannot explain to myself, 
especially as I suspect you must be in the 
country. Do answer me soon for I really 
must know something. I must steer my- 
self by the rudder of Information. . . . 

Ever yours sincerely John Keats. 

127. TO THE SAME 

Winchester, September 5 [1819] . 
My dear Taylor — This morning I re- 
ceived yours of the 2d, and with it a letter 
from Hessey enclosing a Bank post Bill of 
£30, an ample sum I assure you — more I 
had no thought of. — You should not have 
delayed so long in Fleet St. — leading an 
inactive life as you did was breathing poi- 



son: you will find the country air do more 
for you than you expect. But it must be 
proper country air. You must choose a 
spot. What sort of a place is Retford ? 
You should have a dry, gravelly, barren, 
elevated country, open to the currents of 
air, and such a place is generally furnished 
with the finest springs — The neighbour- 
hood of a rich enclosed fulsome manured 
arable land, especially in a valley and al- 
most as bad on a flat, would be almost as 
bad as the smoke of Fleet Street. — Such a 
place as this was Shanklin, only open to the 
south-east, and surrounded by hills in every 
other direction. From this south-east came 
the damps of the sea; which, having no 
egress, the air would for days together take 
on an unhealthy idiosyncracy altogether 
enervating and weakening as a city smoke 
— I felt it very much. Since I have been 
here at Winchester I have been improving 
in health — it is not so confined — and there 
is on one side of the City a dry chalky down, 
where the air is worth Sixpence a pint. So 
if you do not get better at Retford, do not 
impute it to your own weakness before 
you have well considered the Nature of 
the air and soil — especially as Autumn is 
encroaching — for the Autumn fog over a 
rich land is like the steam from cabbage 
water. What makes the great difference 
between valesmen, flatlandmen and moun- 
taineers ? The cultivation of the earth in 
a great measure — Our health temperament 
and disposition are taken more (notwith- 
standing the contradiction of the history of 
Cain and Abel) from the air we breathe, 
than is generally imagined. See the differ- 
ence between a Peasant and a Butcher. — 
I am convinced a great cause of it is the 
difference of the air they breathe: the one 
takes his mingled with the fume of slaugh- 
ter, the other from the dank exhalement 
from the glebe; the teeming damp that 
comes up from the plough-furrow is of 
great effect in taming the fierceness of a 
strong man — more than his labour — Let 
him be mowing furz upon a mountain, and 



TO FANNY BRAWNE 



393 



at the day's end his thoughts will run upon 
a . . . axe if he ever had handled one ; let 
him leave the plough, and he will think 
quietly of his supper. Agriculture is the 
tamer of men — the steam from the earth 
is like drinking their Mother's milk — it 
enervates their nature — this appears a 
great cause of the imbecility of the Chinese: 
and if this sort of atmosphere is a mitiga- 
tion to the energy of a strong man, how 
much more must it injure a weak one un- 
occupied unexercised — For what is the 
cause of so many men maintainiug a good 
state in Cities, but occupation — An idle 
man, a man who is not sensitively alive to 
self-interest in a city cannot continue long 
in good health. This is easily explained — 
If you were to walk leisurely through an 
unwholesome path in the fens, with a little 
liorror of them, you would be sure to have 
your ague. But let Macbeth cross the 
same path, with the dagger in the air lead- 
ing him on, and he would never have an 
ague or anything like it — You should give 
these things a serious consideration. Notts, 
I believe, is a flat county — You should be 
on the slope of one of the dry barren hills 
in Somersetshire. I am convinced there is 
as harmful air to be breathed in the country 
as in town. I am greatly obliged to you 
for your letter. Perhaps, if you had had 
strength and spirits enough, you would have 
felt offended by my offering a note of hand, 
or rather expressed it. However, I am 
sure you will give me credit for not in any- 
wise mistrusting you : or imagining that 
70U would take advantage of any power I 
might give you over me. No — It pro- 
eeded from my serious resolve not to be a 
gratuitous borrower, from a great desire to 
be correct in money matters, to have in my 
Jesk the Chronicles of them to refer to, 
md know my worldly nonestate: besides 
n case of my death such documents would 
36 but just, if merely as memorials of the 
"'riendly turns I had done to me — Had I 
mown of your illness I should not have 
ivritten in such fiery phrase in my first let- 



ter. I hope that shortly you will be able 
to bear six times as much. Brown likes 
the tragedy very much: But he is not a fit 
judge of it, as I have only acted as midwife 
to his plot; and of course he will be fond 
of his child. I do not think I can make 
you any extracts without spoiling the effect 
of the whole when you come to read it — 
I hope you will then not think my labour 
misspent. Since I finished it, I have fin- 
ished Lamia, and am now occupied in revis- 
ing St. Agnes's Eve, and studying Italian. 
Ariosto I find as diffuse, in parts, as Spen- 
ser — I understand completely the differ- 
ence between them. I will cross the letter 
with some lines from Lamia. [The lines 
copied are 122-177.] Brown's kindest re- 
membrances to you — and I am ever your 
most sincere friend John Keats. 

This is a good sample of the story. 
Brown is gone to Chichester a- visiting — 
I shall be alone here for 3 weeks, expect- 
ing accounts of your health. 

128. TO FANNY BRAWNE 

Fleet Street, Monday Morn. 
[Postmark, Lombard Street, 

September 14, 1819.1 

My dear Girl — I have been hurried 
to town by a Letter from my brother 
George ; it is not of the brightest intelli- 
gence. Am I mad or not ? I came by the 
Friday night coach and have not yet been 
to Hampstead. Upon my soul it is not my 
fault. I cannot resolve to mix any plea- 
sure with my days : they go one like 
another, undistinguishable. If I were to 
see you to-day it would destroy the half 
comfortable sullenness I enjoy at present 
into downright perplexities. I love you 
too much to venture to Hampstead, I feel 
it is not paying a visit, but venturing into 
a fire. Que feraije ? as the French novel 
writers say in fun, and I in earnest : really 
what can I do ? Knowing well that my 
life must be passed in fatigue and trouble, 
I have been endeavouring to wean myself 



394 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



from you: for to myself alone what can be 
much of a misery ? As far as they regard 
myself I can despise all events : but I can- 
not cease to love you. This morning I 
scarcely know what I am doing. I am 
going to Walthamstow. I shall return to 
Winchester to-morrow ; whence you shall 
hear from me in a few days. I am a 
Coward, I cannot bear the pain of being 
happy : 't is out of the question : I must 
admit no thought of it. 

Yours ever affectionately John Keats. 

129. TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 

Winchester, September [17, 1819], Friday. 

My DEAR George — I was closely em- 
ployed in reading and composition in this 
place, whither I had come from Shanklin 
for the convenience of a library, when I 
received your last dated 24th July. You 
will have seen by the short letter I wrote 
from Shanklin how matters stand between 
us and Mr. Jennings. They had not at all 
moved, and I knew no way of overcoming 
the inveterate obstinacy of our affairs. On 
receiving your last, I immediately took a 
place in the same night's coach for London. 
Mr. Abbey behaved extremely well to me, 
appointed Monday evening at seven to 
meet me, and observed that he should 
drink tea at that hour. I gave him the 
enclosed note and showed him the last leaf 
of yours to me. He really appeared anx- 
ious about it, and promised he would for- 
ward your money as quickly as possible. 
I think I mentioned that Walton was dead. 
... He will apply to Mr. Gliddon the 
partner, endeavour to get rid of Mr. Jen- 
ning's claim, and be expeditious. He has 
received an answer from my letter to Fry. 
That is something. We are certainly in a 
very low estate — I say we, for I am in 
such a situation, that were it not for the 
assistance of Brown and Taylor, I must be 
as badly off as a man can be. I could not 
raise any sum by the promise of any poem, 
no, not by the mortgage of my intellect. 



We must wait a little while. I reallj' have 
hopes of success. I liave finished a tragedy, 
which if it succeeds will enable me to sell 
what I may have in manuscript to a good 
advantage. I have passed my time in 
reading, writing, and fretting — the last I 
intend to give up, and stick to the other 
two. They are the only chances of benefit 
to us. Your wants will be a fresh spur to 
me. I assure you you shall more than 
share what I can get wliilst I am still young. 
The time may come when age will make 
me more selfish. I have not been well 
treated by the world, and yet I have, capi- 
tally well. I do not know a person to 
whom so many purse-strings would fly open 
as to me, if I could possibly take advantage 
of them, which I cannot do, for none of 
the owners of these purses are rich. Your 
present situation I will not suffer myself to 
dwell upon. When misfortunes are so real, 
we are glad enough to escape them and 
the thotight of them. I cannot help thinTc- 
ing Mr. Audubon a dishonest man. Why 
did he make you believe that he was a man 
of property ? How is it that his circum- 
stances have altered so suddenly ? In 
truth, I do not believe you fit to deal with 
the world, or at least the American world. 
But, good God ! who can avoid these 
chances ? You have done your best. Take 
matters as coolly as you can ; and confi- 
dently expecting help from England, act as 
if no help were nigh. Mine, I am sure, is 
a tolerable tragedy ; it would have been a 
bank to me, if just as I had finished it, 
I had not heard of Kean's resolution to go 
to America. That was the worst news I 
could have had. There is no actor can do 
the principal character besides Kean. At 
Covent Garden there is a great chance of 
its being damm'd. Were it to succeed 
even there it wonld lift me out of the mire; 
I mean the mire of a bad reputation which 
is continually rising against me. My name 
with the literary fashionables is vulgar. I 
am a weaver-boy to them. A tragedy would 
lift me out of this mess, and mess it is as 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



395 



far as regards our pockets. But be not 
cast down any more tliaii I am; I feel that 
I can bear real ills better than imaginary 
ones. Whenever I find myself growing- 
vapourish, I rouse myself, wash, and put 
on a clean shirt, brush my hair and clothes, 
tie my shoestrings neatly, and in fact 
adonise as I were going out. Then, all 
clean and comfortable, I sit down to write. 
jThis I find the greatest relief. Besides I 
jam becoming accustomed to the privations 
lof the pleasures of sense. In the midst of 
khe world I live like a hermit. I have for- 
igot how to lay plans for the enjoyment of 
lany pleasure. 1 feel I can bear anything, 
any misery, even imprisonment, so long 
s I have neither wife nor child. Perhaps 
ou will say yours are j-our only comfort ; 
hey must be. I returned to Winchester 
the day before yesterday, and am now here 
filone, for Brown, some days before I left, 
iweut to Bedliampton, and there he will be 
for the next fortnight. The term of his 
house will be up in the middle of next 
month when we shall return to Hampstead. 
On Sunday, I dined with your mother and 
Hen and Charles in Henrietta Street. Mrs. 
and Miss Millar were in the country. 
Cliailes had been but a few days returned 
From Paris. I daresay you will have let- 
ters expressing the motives of his journey. 
Mrs. Wylie and Miss Waldegrave seem as 
quiet as two mice there alone. I did not 
show your last. I thought it better not, 
for better times will certainly come, and 
why should they be unhappy in the mean- 
Lime ? On Monday morning I went to 
VValthamstow. Fanny looked better than 
[ had seen her for some time. She com- 
alaius of not hearing from yon, appealing 
o me as if it were half my fault. I had 
3een so long in retirement that London ap- 
peared a very odd place. I could not make 
)ut I had so many acquaintances, and it 
ivas a whole day before I could feel among 
lien. I had another strange sensation. 
There was not one house I felt any plea- 
sure to call at. Reynolds was in the coun- 



try, and, saving himself, I am prejudiced 
against all that family. Dilke and his wife 
and child were in the country. Taylor was 
at Nottingham. I was out, and everybody 
was out. I walked about the streets as in 
a strange land. Rice was the only one at 
home. I passed some time with him. I 
know him better since we have lived a 
mouth together in the Isle of Wight. He 
is the most sensible and even wise man I 
know. He has a few John Bull prejudices, 
but they improve him. His illness is at 
times alarming. We are great friends, and 
there is no one I like to pass a day with 
better. Martin called in to bid him good- 
bye before he set out for Dublin. If you 
would like to hear one of his jokes, here is 
one which, at the time, we laughed at a 

good deal: A Miss , with three young 

ladies, one of them Martin's sister, had 
come a-gadding in the Isle of Wight and 
took for a few days a cottage opposite ours. 
We dined with them one day, and as I was 

saying they had fish. Miss said she 

thought they tasted of the boat. ' No ' says 
Martin, very seriously, 'they haven't been 
kept long enough.' I saw Haslam. He is 
very much occupied with love and business, 
being one of Mr. Saunders' executors and 
lover to a young woman. He showed me 
her picture by Severn. I think she is, 
though not very cunning, too cunning for 
him. Nothing strikes me so forcibly with 
a sense of the ridiculous as love. A man 
in love I do think cuts the sorriest figure 
in the world ; queer, when I know a poor 
fool to be really in pain about it, I could 
burst out laughing in his face. His pa- 
thetic visage becomes irresistible. Not that 
I take Haslam as a pattern for lovers; he is 
a very worthy man and a good friend. His 
love is very amusing. Somewhere in the 
Spectator is related an account of a man 
inviting a party of stutterers and squinters 
to his table. It would please me more to 
scrape together a party of lovers — not to 
dinner, but to tea. There would be no 
fighting as among knights of old. 



396 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



[Here follow the lines given on p. 251.] 
You see, I cannot get on without writing, 
as boys do at school, a few nonsense verses. 
I begin them and before I have written six 
the whim has passed — if there is anything 
deserving so respectable a name in them. 
I shall put in a bit of information any- 
where, just as it strikes me. Mr. Abbey is 
to write to me as soon as he can bring 
matters to bear, and then I am to go to 
town and tell him the means of forwarding 
to you through Capper and Hazlewood. I 
wonder I did not put this before. I shall 
go on to-morrow ; it is so fine now I must 
take a bit of a walk. 

Saturday [September 18], 
With my inconstant disposition it is no 
wonder that this morning, amid all our bad 
times and misfortunes, I should feel so 
alert and well-spirited. At this moment 
you are perhaps in a very different state of 
mind. It is because my hopes are ever 
paramount to my despair. I have been 
reading over a part of a short poem I have 
composed lately, called Lamia, and I am 
certain there is that sort of fire in it that 
must take hold of people some way. Give 
them either pleasant or unpleasant sensa- 
tion — what they want is a sensation of 
some sort. I wish I could pitch the key of 
your spirits as high as mine is ; but your 
organ-loft is beyond the reach of my voice. 
I admire the exact admeasurement of 
my niece in your mother's letter — O ! the 
little span-long elf. I am not in the least 
a judge of the proper weight and size of an 
infant. Never trouble yourselves about 
that. She is sure to be a fine woman. Let 
her have only delicate nails both on hands 
and feet, and both as small as a May-fly's, 
who will live you his life on a 3 square inch 
of oak-leaf ; and nails she must have, quite 
different from the market-women here, who 
plough into butter and make a quarter 
pound taste of it. I intend to write a let- 
ter to your wife, and there I may say more 
on this little plump subject — I hope she 's 



plump. Still harping on my daughter. 
This Winchester is a place tolerably well 
suited to me. There is a fine cathedral, a 
college, a Roman Catholic chapel, a Metho- 
dist do., and Independent do. ; and there 
is not one loom, or anything like manufac- 
turing beyond bread and butter, in the 
whole city. There are a number of rich 
Catholics in the place. It is a respectable, 
ancient, and aristocratic place, and more- 
over it contains a nunnery. Our set are by 
no means so hail fellow well met on lit- 
erary subjects as we were wont to be. 
Reynolds has turn'd to the law. By the bye, 
he brought out a little piece at the Lyceum 
call'd One, Two, Three, Four : by Adver- 
tisement. It met with complete success. 
The meaning of this odd title is explained 
when I tell you the principal actor is aj 
mimic, who takes off four of our best per- 1 
formers in the course of the farce. Our 
stage is loaded with mimics. I did not see 
the piece, being out of town the whole time 
it was in progress. Dilke is entirely swal- 
lowed up in his boy. It is really lament- 
able to what a pitch he carries a sort of 
parental mania. I had a letter from him 
at Shanklin. He went on, a word or two 
about the Isle of Wight, which is a bit of 
hobby horse of his, but he soon deviated to 
his boy. ' I am sitting,' says he, ' at the 

window expecting my boy from .' I 

suppose I told you somewhere that he lives 
in AVestminster, and his boy goes to school 
there, where he gets beaten, and every 
bruise he has, and I daresay deserves, is 
very bitter to Dilke. The place I am 
speaking of puts me in mind of a circum- 
stance which occurred lately at Dilke's. I 
think it very rich and dramatic and quite 
illustrative of the little quiet fun that he 
will enjoy sometimes. First I must tell 
you that their house is at the corner of 
Great Smith Street, so that some of the 
windows look into one street, and the back 
windows look into another around the 
corner. Dilke had some old people to din- 
ner — I know not who, but there were two 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



397 



old ladies among tlieui. Brown was there 
— they had kuowii him from a child. 
Brown is very pleasant with old women, 
and on that day it seems behaved himself 
so winningly that they became hand and 
glove together, and a little complimentarj-. 
Brown was obliged to depart early. He 
bid them good-bye and passed into the 
passage. No sooner was his back tnrned 
than the old women began lauding him. 
When Brown had reached the street door, 
and was just going, Dilke threw up the win- 
dow and called : ' Brown ! Brown ! They 
say you look younger than ever you did ! ' 
Brown went on, and had just turned the 
corner into the other street when Dilke 
appeared at the back window, crying : 
' Brown ! Brown ! By God, they say you're 
handsome ! ' You see what a many words 
it requires to give any identity to a thing I 
could have told you in half a minute. 

I have been reading lately Burton's 
Anatomy of Melancholy, and I think you 
will be very much amused with a page I 
here copy for you. I call it a Feu de Joie 
round the batteries of Fort St. Hyphen-de- 
Phrase on the birthday of the Digamma. 
The whole alphabet was drawn up in a 
phalanx on the corner of an old dictionary, 
band playing, * Amo, Amas,' etc. 

Every lover admires his mistress, though 
she be very deformed of herself, ill-favoured, 
•wrinkled, pimpled, pale, red, yellow, tan'd, 
tallow-faced, have a swoln juglers platter face, 
or a thin, lean, ehitty face, have clouds in her 
face, be crooked, dry, bald, goggle-ey'd, blear- 
ey'd or with staring eys, she looks likeasquis'd 
cat, holds her head still awry, heavy, dull, 
hollow-mouthed, Persean hook-nosed, have a 
sharp Jose nose, a red nose, China flat, great 
nose, nare simo patuloque, a nose like a promon- 
tory, gubber-tushed, rotten teeth, black, im- 
even, brown teeth, beetle browed, a witches 
beard, her breath stink all over the room, her 
nose drop winter and summer with a Bavarian 
(poke under her chin, a sharp chin, lave eared, 
[with a long cranes neck, which stands awry too, 
/pendulis niammis, her dugs like two double jugs, 
ior else no dugs in the other extream, bloody 
fain fingers, she have filthy long unpaired 
' nails, scabbed hands or wrists, a tan'd skin, a 



rotten carkass, crooked back, she stoops, is 
lame, splea-footed, as slender in the middle as a 
cotv in the waste, gowty legs, her ankles hang 
over her shooes, her feet stink, she breed lice, 
a mere chaugehng, a very monster, an auf e im- 
perfect, her whole complexion savours, an 
harsh voyce, incondite gesture, vile gait, a vast 
virago, or au ugly tit, a slug, a fat fustilugs, a 
truss, a long lean rawbone, a skeleton, a sneaker 
(si qua latent meliora puta), and to thy judgment 
looks like a Mard in a lanthorn, whom thou 
couldst not fancy for a world, but hatest, 
loathest, and woiddst have spit in her face, or 
l)low thj^ nose in her bosome, remedium amo- 
ris to another man. a dowdj', a shit, a scold, 
a nastj', rank, rammy, filthy, beastly quean, 
dishonest peradventure, obscene, base, beg- 
gerly, rude, foolish, untaught, peevish, Irus' 
daughter, Thersite's sister, Grobian's schollar ; 
if he love her once, he admii-es her for aU this, 
he takes no notice of any such errors, or im- 
perfections of body or minde.' 

There's a dose for you. Fire ! ! I 
would give ray favourite leg to have writ- 
ten this as a speech in a play. With what 
effect could Matthews pop-gun it at the 
pit ! This I think will amuse you more 
than so much poetry. Of that I do not 
like to copy any, as I am afraid it is too 
mal a propos for you at present ; and j'et 
I will send you some, for by the time you 
receive it, things in England may have 
taken a different turn. When I left Mr. 
Abbey on Monday evening, I walked up 
Cheapside, but returned to put some letters 
in the post, and met him again in Buckles- 
bury. We walked together through the 
Poultry as far as the baker's shop he has 
some concern in — He spoke of it in such 
a way to me, I thought he wanted me to 
make an offer to assist him in it. I do 
believe if I could be a hatter I might be 
one. He seems anxious about me. He 
began blowing up Lord Byron while I was 
sitting with him : ' However, may be the 
fellow says true now and then,' at which 
he picked up a magazine, and read some 
extracts from Don Juan (Lord Byron's last 
flash poem), and particularly one against 
literary ambition. I do think I must be 
well spoken of among sets, for Hodgkin- 



398 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



son is more than polite, and the coffee 
German endeavoured to be very close to 
me the other night at Covent Garden, 
where I went at half price before I tumbled 
into bed. Every one, however distant an 
acquaintance, behaves in the most conciliat- 
ing manner to me. You will see I speak 
of this as a matter of interest. On the 
next sheet I will give you a little poli- 
tics. 

In every age there has been in England, 
for two or three centuries, subjects of 
great popular interest ou the carpet, go 
that however great the uproar, one can 
scarcely prophecy any material change in 
the Government, for as loud disturbances 
have agitated the country many times. 
All civilized countries become gradually 
more enlightened, and there should be a 
continual change for the better. Look at 
this country at present, and remember it 
when it was even thought impious to doubt 
the justice of a trial by combat. From 
that time there has been a gradual change. 
Three great changes have been in progress: 
first for the better, next for the worse, and 
a third for the better once more. The first 
was the gradual annihilation of the tyranny 
of the nobles, when kings found it their 
interest to conciliate the common people, 
elevate tliem, and be just to them. Just 
when baronial power ceased, and before 
standing armies were so dangerous, taxes 
were few, kings were lifted by the peo- 
ple over the heads of their nobles, and 
those people held a rod over kings. The 
change for the worse in Europe was again 
this: the obligation of kings to the multi- 
tude began to be forgotten. Custom had 
made noblemen the humble servants of 
kings. Then kings turned to the nobles 
as the adorners of their power, the slaves 
of it, and from the people as creatures 
continually endeavouring to check them. 
Then in every kingdom there was a 
long struggle of kings to destroy all 
popular privileges. The English were 
the only people in Europe who made a 



grand kick at this. They were slaves 
to Henry VIII, but were freemen under 
William III at the time the French were 
abject slaves under Louis XIV. The ex- 
ample of England, and the liberal writers 
of France and England, sowed the seed of 
opposition to this tyranny, and it was swell- 
ing in the ground till it burst out in the 
French Revolution. That has had an un- 
lucky termination. It put a stop to the 
rapid progress of free sentiments in Eng- 
land, and gave our Court hopes of turning 
back to the despotism of the eighteenth 
century. They have made a handle of 
this event in every way to undermine our 
* freedom. They spread a horrid supersti- 
tion against all innovation and improve- 
ment. The present struggle in England of 
the people is to destroy this superstition. 
What has roused them to do it is their 
distresses. Perhaps, on this account, the 
present distresses of this nation are a 
fortunate thing though so horrid in their 
experience. You will see I mean that the 
French Revolution put a temporary stop 
to this third change — the change for the 
better — Now it is in progress again, and 
I think it is an effectual one. This is no 
contest between Whig and Tory, but be- 
tween right and wrong. There is scarcely 
a grain of party spirit now in England. 
Right and wrong considered by each man 
abstractedly, is the fashion. I know very 
little of these things. I am convinced, 
however, that apparently small causes 
make great alterations. There are little 
signs whereby we may know how matters 
are going on This makes the business of 
Carlisle the bookseller of great amount in 
my mind. He has been selling deistical 
pamphlets, republished Tom Paine, and 
manj' other works held in superstitious 
horror. He even has been selling, for 
some time, immense numbers of a work 
called The Deist, which comes out in 
weekly numbers. For this conduct he, I 
think, has had about a dozen indictments 
issued against him, for which he has found 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



399 



bail to the amount of many thousand 
pounds. After all, they are afraid to pro- 
secute. They are afraid of his defence ; it 
would be published in all the papers all 
over the empire. They shudder at this. 
The trials would light a flame they could 
ttot extinguish. Do you not think this of 
^reat import ? You will hear by the 
papers of the proceedings at Manchester, 
md Hunt's triumphal entry into Lon- 
don. ^^ It would take me a whole day 
md a quire of paper to give you any- 
thing like detail. I will merely mention 
phat it is calculated that 30,000 people 
vere in the streets waiting for hftn. The 
ivhole distance from the Angel at Islington 
io the Crown and Anchor was lined with 
nultitudes. 

As 1 passed Colnaghi's window I saw a 
profile portrait of Sandt, the destroyer of 
iotzebue. His very look must interest 
jvery one in his favour. I suppose they 
lave represented him in his college dress. 
Je seems to me like a young Abelard — a 
ine mouth, cheek bones (and this is no 
oke) full of sentiment, a fine, unvulgar 
lose, and plump temples. 

On looking over some letters I found the 
me I wrote, intended for you, from the 
oot of Helvell3'n to Liverpool ; but you 
lad sailed, and therefore it was returned to 
ne. It contained, among other nonsense, 
m acrostic of my sister's name — and a 
)retty long name it is. I wrote it in a 
jreat hurry which you will see. Indeed I 
vould not copy it if I thought it would 
!ver be seen by any but yourselves. [See 
). 243.] 

I sent you in my first packet some of 
ny Scotch letters. I find I have one kept 
)ack, which was written in the most iuter- 
ssting part of our tour, and will copy part 
)f it in the hope you will not find it unanius- 
ng. I would give now anything for Rich- 
irdson's power of making mountains of 
nolehills. 

Incipit epistola caledoniensa — 



' Dunancullen,' 
(I did not know the day of the month, for 
I find I have not added it. Brown must 
have been asleep). 'Just after my last 
had gone to the post ' (before I go any 
further, I must premise that I would send 
the identical letter, instead of taking the 
trouble to copy it ; I do not do so, for it 
would spoil my notion of the neat manner 
in which I intend to fold these three gen- 
teel sheets. The original is written on 
coarse paper, and the soft one would ride 
in the post bag very uneasy. Perhaps 
there might be a quarrel * . . . 

I ought to make a large ' ? ' here, but I 
had better take the opportunity of telling 
j'ou I have got rid of my haunting sore 
throat, and conduct myself in a manner not 
to catch another. 

You speak of Lord Byron and me. There 
is this great difference between us : he de- 
scribes what he sees — I describe what I 
imagine. Mine is the hardest task ; now 
see the immense difference. The Edin- 
burgh Reviewers are afraid to touch upon 
my poem. They do not know what to 
make of it ; they do not like to condemn it, 
and they will not praise it for fear. They 
are as shy of it as I should be of wearing a 
Quaker's hat. The fact is, they have no 
real taste. They dare not compromise their 
judgments on so puzzling a question. If 
on my next publication they should praise 
me, and so lug in Endymion, I will address 
them in a manner they will not at all relish. 
The cowardliness of the Edinburgh is more 
than the abuse of the Quarterly. 

* Keats here copies, with slight changes and 
abridgments, his letter to Tom of July 2.3, 1818 
(see above, p. 320) ending with the lines written 
after visiting Staffa : as to which he adds, ' I 
find I must keep niemorandums of the verses 
I send you, for I do not remember whether I 
have sent the following lines upon Staffa. I 
hope not ; 't would be a horrid bore to you, 
especially after reading this dull specimen of 
description. For myself I hate descriptions. 
I woidd not send it if it were not mine.' 



400 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



Monday [September 20]. 
This day is a grand day for Winchester. 
They elect the mayor. It was indeed high 
time the place should have some sort of 
excitement. There was nothing going ou 
— all asleep. Not an old maid's sedan re- 
turning from a card party ; and if any old 
women have got tipsy at christenings, they 
have not exposed themselves in the street. 
The first night, though, of our arrival here 
there was a slight uproar took place at 
about ten of the clock. We heard dis- 
tinctly a noise patting down the street, as 
of a walking-cane of the good old dowager 
breed ; and a little minute after we heard 
a less voice observe, ' What a noise the 
ferril made — it must be loose.' Brown 
wanted to call the constables, but I ob- 
served it was only a little breeze, and 
would soon pass over. The side streets 
here are excessively maiden-lady-like ; the 
doorsteps always fresh from the flannel. 
The knockers have a very staid, serious, 
nay almost awful quietness about them. I 
never saw so quiet a collection of lions' 
and rams' heads. The doors most part 
black, with a little brass handle just above 
the keyhole, so that you may easily shut 
yourself out of your own house. He ! He ! 
There is none of your Lady Bellaston ring- 
ing and rapping here ; no thundering 
Jupiter-footmen, no opera-treble tattoos, 
but a modest lifting up of the knocker by 
a set of little wee old fingers that peep 
through the gray mittens, and a dying fall 
thereof. The great beauty of poetry is 
that it makes everything in every place in- 
teresting. The palatine Venice and the 
abbotine Winchester are equally interest- 
ing. Some time since I began a poem 
called ' The Eve of St. Mark,' quite in the 
spirit of town quietude. I think I will 
give you the sensation of walking about an 
old country town in a coolish evening. I 
know not whether I shall ever finish it ; I 
will give it as far as I have gone. Ut 
tibi placeat — 

[The Eve of St. Mark. See p. 196.] 



I hope you will like this for all its care- 
lessness. I must take an opportunity here 
to observe that though I am writing to you, 
I am all the while writing at your wife. 
This explanation will account for my speak- 
ing sometimes hoity-toity-ishly, whereas if 
you were alone, I should sport a little more 
sober sadness. I am like a squinty gentle- 
man, who, saying soft things to one lady 
ogles another, or what is as bad, in arguing 
with a person on his left hand, appeals 
with his eyes to one on the right. His 
vision is elastic ; he bends it to a certain 
object, but having a patent spring it flies off. 
Writing has this disadvantage of speaking 
— one cannot write a wink, or a nod, or a 
grin, or a purse of the lips, or a smile — 
law! One cannot put one's finger to one's 
nose, or yerk ye in the ribs, or lay hold of 
your button in writing ; but in all the most 
lively and titterly parts of my letter you 
must not fail to imagine me, as the epic 
poets say, now here, now there ; now with 
one foot pointed at the ceiling, now with 
another ; now with my pen on my ear, now 
with my elbow in my mouth. O, my friends, 
you lose the action, and attitude is every- 
thing, as Fuseli said when he took up his leg 
like a musket to shoot a swallow just dart-' 
ing behind his shoulder. And yet does 
not the word ' mum ' go for one's finger 
beside the nose ? I hope it does. I have 
to make use of the word ' mum ' before I 
tell you that Severn has got a little baby — 
all his own, let us hope. He told Brown 
he had given up painting, and had turned 
modeller. I hope sincerely 't is not a party 

concern — that no Mr. or is the 

real Pinxit and Severn the poor Sculpsit to 
this work of art. You know he has long- 
studied in the life Academy. 'Haydon — 
yes,' your wife will say, * Here is a sura 
total account of Haydon again. I wonder 
your brother don't put a monthly bulletin 
in the Philadelphia papers about him. I 
won't hear — no. Skip down to the bottom, 
and there are some more of his verses ■ 
skip (luUaby-by) them too.' — ' No, let 's 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



401 



go regularly through.' — * I won't hear a 
word about Haydon — bless the child, how 
rioty she is — there, go on there.' 

Now, pray go on here, for I have a few 
words to say about Haydon. Before this 
chancery threat had cut off every legiti- 
mate supply of cash from me, I had a little 
at ray disposal. Haydon being very much 
fn want, I lent him £30 of it. Now in this 
see-saw game of life, I got nearest to the 
aground, and this chancery business riveted 
pae there, so that I was sitting in that un- 
3asy position where the seat slants so 
abominably. I applied to him for pay- 
jnent. He could not. That was no won- 
der ; but Goodman Delver, where was the 
vonder then ? Why marry in this : he 
lid not seem to care much about it, and let 
ne go without my money with almost non- 
balance, when he ought to have sold his 
(rawings to supply me. I shall perhaps 
till be acquainted with him, but for friend- 
hip, that is at an end. Brown has been 
ly friend in this. He got him to sign a 
lond, payable at three months. Haslam 
as assisted me with the return of part of 
le money you lent him. 
Hunt — ' there,' says your wife, * there 's 
[lother of those dull folk ! Not a syllable 
bout my friends ? Well, Hunt — What 
bout Hunt ? You little thing, see how she 
ites my finger ! My ! is not this a tooth ? ' 
V^ell when you have done with the tooth, 
jad on. Not a syllable about your friends ! 
[ere are some syllables. As far as I could 
noke things on the Sunday before last, 
lus matters stood in Henrietta Street. 
[enry was. a greater blade then ever I re- 
member to have seen him. He had on a 
ery nice coat, a becoming waistcoat, and 
uff trousers. I think his face has lost a 
ttle of the Spanish-brown, but no flesh. 
[e carved some beef exactly to suit my 
apetite, as if I had been measured for it. 
s I stood looking out of the window with 
harles, after dinner, quizzing the passen- 
irs, — at which I am sorry to say he is too 
>t, — I observed that this young son of a 



gun's whiskers had begun to curl and curl, 
little twists and twists, all down the sides 
of his face, getting properly thickest on the 
angles of the visage. He certainly will 
have a notable pair of whiskers. ' How 
shiny your gown is in front,' says Charles. 
' Why don't you see ? 't is an apron,' says 
Henry; whereat I scrutinised, and behold 
your mother had a purple stuff gown on, 
and over it an apron of the same colour, 
being the same cloth that was used for the 
lining. And furthermore to account for 
the shining, it was the first day of wearing. 
I guessed as much of the gown — but that 
is eutre nous. Charles likes England better 
than France. They've got a fat, smiling, 
fair cook as ever you saw ; she is a little 
lame, but that improves her ; it makes her 
go more swimmingly. When I asked ' Is 
Mrs. Wylie within ? ' she gave me such 
a large five-and-thirty-year-old smile, it 
made me look round upon the fourth stair — 
it might have been the fifth ; but that 's a 
puzzle. I shall never be able, if I were to 
set myself a recollecting for a year, to re- 
collect. I think I remember two or three 
specks in her teeth, but I really can't say 
exactly. Your mother said something about 
Miss Keasle — what that was is quite a 
riddle to me now, whether she had got 
fatter or thinner, or broader or longer, 
straiter, or had taken to the zigzags — 
whether she had taken to or had left off 
asses' milk. That, by the bye, she ought 
never to touch. How much better it would 
be to put her out to nurse with the wise 
woman of Brentford. I can say no more 
on so spare a subject. Miss Millar now is 
a different morsel, if one knew how to 
divide and subdivide, theme her out into 
sections and subsections, lay a little on 
every part of her body as it is divided, in 
common with all her fellow - creatures, 
in Moor's Almanack. But, alas, I have not 
heard a word about her, no cue to begin 
upon : there was indeed a buzz about her 
and her mother's being at old Mrs. So and 
So's, who was like to die, as the Jews say. 



402 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



But I dare say, keeping up their dialect, 
she was not like to die. I must tell you a 
good thing Rej'uolds did. 'T was the best 
thing he ever said. You know at taking 
leave of a party at a doorway, sometimes a 
man dallies and foolishes aud gets awkward, 
and does not know how to make off to ad- 
vantage. Good-bye — well, good-bye — 
and yet he does not go; good-bye, and so 
on, — well, good bless you — you know 
what I mean. Now Reynolds was in this 
predicament, and got out of it in a very 
witty way. He was leaving us at Hamp- 
stead. He delayed, and we were pressing 
at him, and even said ' be off,' at which he 
put the tails of his coat between his legs 
and sneak'd off as nigh like a spaniel as 
could be. He went with flying colours. 
This is very clever. I must, being upon 
the subject, tell you another good thing of 
him. He began, for the service it might 
be of to him in the law, to learn French ; 
he had lessons at the cheap rate of 2s. 6d. 
per fag, and observed to Brown, ' Gad,' 
says he, 'the man sells his lessons so cheap 
he must have stolen 'era.' You have heard 
of Hook, the farce writer. Horace Smith 
said to one who asked him if he knew 
Hook, ' Oh yes. Hook and I are very in- 
timate.' There 's a page of wit for you, to 
put John Bunyan's emblems out of coun- 
tenance. 

Tuesday [September 21]. 
You see I keep adding a sheet daily till 
I send the packet off, which I sliall not do 
for a few days, as I am inclined to write a 
good deal ; for there can be nothing so re- 
membrancing and enchaining as a good 
long letter, be it composed of what it may. 
From the time you left me our friends say 
I have altered completely — am not the 
same person. Perhaps in this letter I am, 
for in a letter one takes np one's existence 
from the time we last met. I daresay you 
have altered also — every man does — our 
bodies every seven years are completely 
material'd. Seven years ago it was not this 



hand that clinched itself against Hammond. 
We are like the relict garments of a saint 
— the same and not the same, for the care- 
ful monks patch it and patch it till there 's 
not a thread of the original garment left, 
aud still they show it for St. Anthony's 
shirt. This is the reason why men who 
have been bosom friends, on being separated 
for any number of years meet coldly, neither 
of them knowing why. The fact is they are 
both altered. 

Men who live together have a silent 
moulding and influencing power over each 
other. They interassimilate. 'T is an un- 
easy thought, that in seven years the same 
hands cannot greet each other again. All 
this may be obviated by a wilful and dra- 
matic exercise of our minds towards each 
other. Some think I have lost that poetic 
ardour and fire 't is said I once had — the 
fact is, perhaps I have; but, instead of that, 
I hope I shall substitute a more thoughtful 
and quiet power. I am more frequently 
now contented to read and think, but now 
and then haunted with ambitious thoughts. 
Quieter in my pulse, improved in my diges- 
tion, exerting myself against vexing specu- 
lations, scarcely content to write the best 
verses for the fever they leave behind. I 
want to compose without tliis fever. I hope 
I one day shall. You would scarcely ima- 
gine I could live alone so comfortably. 
' Kepen in solitarinesse.' I told Anne, the 
servant here, the other day, to say I was 
not at home if any one should call. I am 
not certain how I should endure loneliness 
and bad weather together. Now the time is 
beautiful. I take a walk every day for an 
hour before diimer, and this is generally my 
walk : I go out the back gate, across one 
street into the cathedral yard, which is al- 
ways interesting ; there I pass under the 
trees along a paved path, pass the beautiful 
front of the cathedral, turn to the left 
under a stone doorway, — then I am on the 
other side of the building, — which leaving 
behind me, I pass on through two college- 
like squares, seemingly built for the dwel- 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



403 



ling-place of deans and prebendaries, gar- 
nished with grass and shaded with trees; 
then I pass through one of the old city 
gates, and then you are in one college 
street, through which I pass and at the 
end thereof crossing some meadows, and 
at last a country alley of gardens, I ar- 
rive, that is my worship arrives, at the 
foundation of St. Cross, which is a very 
interesting old place, both for its gothic 
tower and alms square and for the ap- 
propriation of its rich rents to a relation 
of the Bishop of Winchester. Then I pass 
across St. Cross meadows till you come to 
the most beautifully clear river — now this 
is only one mile of my walk. I will spare 
you the other two till after supper, when 
they would do you more good. You 
must avoid going the first mile best after 
dinner — 

[Wednesday, September 22.] 
I could almost advise you to put by this 
nonsense until you are lifted out of your 
difficulties; but when you come to this part, 
feel with confidence what I now feel, that 
though there can be no stop put to trou- 
bles we are inheritors of, there can be, 
and must be, an end to immediate diffi- 
culties. Rest in the confidence that I will 
not omit any exertion to benefit you by 
some means or other — If I cannot remit 
you hundreds, I will tens, and if not that, 
ones. Let the next year be managed by 
you as well as possible — the next month, 
I mean, for I trust you will soon re- 
ceive Abbey's remittance. What he can 
send you will not be a sufficient capital 
to ensure you any command in America. 
What he has of mine I have nearly antici- 
pated by debts, so I would advise you not 
to sink it, but to live upon it, in hopes of 
my being able to increase it. To this end 
I will devote whatever I may gain for a 
few years to come, at which period I must 
begin to think of a security of my own 
comforts, when quiet will become more 
pleasant to me than the world. Still I 
would have you doubt my success. 'T is at 



present the cast of a die with me. You say, 
' These things will be a great torment to 
me.' I shall not suffer them to be so, I 
sliall only exert myself the more, while the 
seriousness of their nature will prevent me 
from nursing up imaginary griefs. I have 
not had the blue devils once since I received 
your last. I am advised not to publish 
till it is seen whether the tragedy will or 
not succeed. Should it, a few months may 
see me in the way of acquiring property. 
Should it not, it will be a drawback, and 
I shall have to perform a longer literai'y 
pilgrimage. You will perceive that it is 
(juite out of my interest to come to Amer- 
ica. What could I do there ? How could 
I employ myself out of reach of libraries ? 
You do not mention the name of the gentle- 
man who assists you. 'T is an extraordinary 
thing. How could you do without that 
assistance ? I will not trust myself with 
brooding over this. The following is an 
extract from a letter of Reynolds to me: — 

' I am glad to hear you are getting on so 
well with your writings. I hope you are not 
neglecting the revision of your poems for 
the press, from which I expect more than 
you do.' 

Tlie first thought that struck me on 
reading your last was to mortgage a poem 
to Murray, but on more consideration, I 
made my mind not to do so; my reputation 
is very low; he would not have negotiated 
my bill of intellect, or given me a very 
small sum. I should have bound myself 
down for some time. 'Tis best to meet 
present misfortunes; not for a momentary 
good to sacrifice great benefits which one's 
own untrammell'd and free industry may 
bring one in the end. In all this do never 
tiiink of me as in any way unhappy: I shall 
not be so. I have a great pleasure in think- 
ing of my responsibility to you, and shall 
do myself the greatest luxury if I can suc- 
ceed in any way so as to be of assistance to 
you. We shall look back upon these times, 
even before our eyes are at all dim — I am 
convinced of it. But be careful of those 



404 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



Americans. I could almost advise you to 
come, whenever you have the sum of £500, 
to England. Those Americans will, I am 
afraid, still fleece you. If ever you think 
of such a thing, you must bear in mind the 
very different state of society here, — the 
immense difficulties of the times, the great 
sum required per annum to maintain your- 
self in any decency. In fact the whole is 
with Providence. I know not how to advise 
you but by advising you to advise with 
yourself. In your next tell me at large 
your thoughts about America — what 
chance there is of succeeding there, for it 
appears to me you have as yet been some- 
how deceived. I cannot help thinking Mr. 
Audubon has deceived you. I shall not 
like the sight of him. I shall endeavour to 
avoid seeing him. You see how puzzled I 
am. I have no meridian to fix you to, 
being the slave of what is to happen. I 
think I may bid you finally remain in good 
hopes, and not tease yourself with my 
changes and variations of mind. If I say 
nothing decisive in any one particular part 
of my letter, you may glean the truth 
from the whole pretty correctly. You may 
wonder why I had not put your affairs 
with Abbey in train on receiving your 
letter before last, to which there will reach 
you a short answer dated from Shanklin. 
I did write and speak to Abbey, but to no 
purpose. Your last, with the enclosed note, 
has appealed home to him. He will not 
see the necessity of a thing till he is hit in 
the mouth. 'T will be effectual. 

I am sorry to mix up foolish and serious 
things together, but in writing so much I 
am obliged to do so, and I hope sincerely 
the tenor of your mind will maintain itself 
better. In the course of a few months I 
shall be as good an Italian scholar as I am 
a French one. I am reading Ariosto at 
present, not managing more than six or 
eight stanzas at a time. When I have 
done this language, so as to be able to read 
it tolerably well, I shall set myself to get 
complete in Latin, and there my learning 



must stop. I do not think of returning 
upon Greek. I would not go even so far 
if I were not persuaded of the power the 
knowledge of any language gives one. The 
fact is I like to be acquainted with foreign 
languages. It is, besides, a nice way of 
filling up intervals, etc. Also the reading 
of Dante is well worth the while; and in 
Latin there is a fund of curious literature 
of the Middle Ages, the works of many 
great men — Aretino and Sannazaro and 
Machiavelli. I shall never become at- 
tached to a foreign idiom, so as to put it 
into my writings. The Paradise Lost, 
though so fine in itself, is a corruption of 
our language. It should be kept as it is — 
unique, a curiosity, a beautiful and grand 
curiosity, the most remarkable production 
of the world ; a northern dialect accommo- 
dating itself to Greek and Latin inversions 
and intonations. The purest English, I 
think — or what ought to be purest — is 
Chatterton's. The language had existed 
long enough to be entirely uncorrupted of 
Chaucer's Gallicisms, and still the old 
words are used. Chatterton's language 
is entirely northern. I prefer the native 
music of it to Milton's, cut by feet. I have 
but lately stood on my guard against Mil- 
ton. Life to him would be death to me. 
Miltonic verse cannot be written, but is the 
verse of art. I wish to devote myself to 
another verse alone. 

Friday [September 24]. 
I have been obliged to intermit your let- 
ter for two days (this being Friday morn- 
ing), from having had to attend to other 
correspondence. Brown, who was at Bed- 
hampton, went thence to Chichester, and I 
am still directing my letters Bedhamp- 
ton. There arose a misunderstanding about 
them. I began to suspect my letters had 
been stopped from curiosity. However, 
yesterday Brown had four letters from me 
all in a lump, and the matter is cleared up. 
Brown complained very much in his letter 
to me of yesterday of the great alteration 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



405 



the dispositiou of Dilke has undergone. 
He thinks of nothing but political justice 
i and his boy. Now, the first political duty 
j a man ought to have a mind to is the hap- 
piness of his friends. I wrote Brown a 
comment on the subject, wherein I ex- 
plained what I thought of Dilke's charac- 
ter, which resolved itself into this conclu- 
sion, that Dilke was a man who cannot feel 
he has a personal identity unless he has 
made up his mind about everything. The 
only means of strengthening one's intellect 
is to make up one's mind about nothing — 
to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all 
thoughts, not a select party. The genus is 
not scarce in population ; all the stubborn 
arguers you meet with are of the same 
brood. They never begin upon a subject 
they have not pre-resolved on. They want 
to hammer their nail into you, and if you 
have the point, still they think you wrong. 
Dilke will never come at a truth as long as 
he lives, because he is always trying at it. 
He is a Godwin Methodist. 

I must not forget to mention that your 
mother show'd me the lock of hair — 't is 
of a very dark colour for so young a crea- 
ture. Then it is two feet in length. I 
shall not stand a barley corn higher. That 's 
not fair; one ought to go on growing as 
well as others. At the end of this sheet I 
shall stop for the present and send it off. 
You may expect auother letter immediately 
after it. As I never know the day of the 
month but by chance, I put here that this 
is the 24th September. 

I would wish you here to stop your ears, 
for I have a word or two to say to your 
wife. 

My dear Sister — In the first place I 
must quarrel with you for sending me such 
a shabby piece of paper, though that is in 
some degree made up for by the beautiful 
impression of the seal. You should like to 
know what I was doing the first of May. 
Let me see — I cannot recollect. I have 
all the Examiners ready to send — they 



will be a great treat to you when they reach 
you. I shall pack them up when my busi- 
ness with Abbey has come to a good con- 
clusion, and the remittance is on the road 
to you. I have dealt round your best 
wishes like a pack of cards, but being al- 
ways given to cheat myself, I have turned 
up ace. You see I am making game of 
you. I see you are not all happy in that 
America. England, however, would not be 
over happy for you if you were hei-e. Per- 
haps 't would be better to be teased here 
than there. I must preach patience to you 
both. No step hasty or injurious to you 
must be taken. You say let one large 
sheet be all to me. You will find more 
than that in different parts of this packet 
for you. Certainly, I have been caught in 
rains. A catch in the rain occasioned my 
last sore throat ; but as for red-haired girls, 
upon my word, I do not recollect ever hav- 
ing seen one. Are you quizzing me or Miss 
Waldegrave when you talk of promenad- 
ing ? As for pun-making, I wish it was as 
good a trade as pin-making. There is very 
little business of that sort going on now. 
We struck for wages, like the Manchester 
weavers, but to no purpose. So we are all 
out of employ. I am more lucky than 
some, you see, by having an opportunity of 
exporting a few — getting into a little for- 
eign trade, which is a comfortable thing. I 
wish one could get change for a pun in 
silver currency. I would give three and a 
half any night to get into Drury pit, but 
thej^ won't ring at all. No more will notes 
you will say; but notes are different things, 
though they make together a pun-note as 
the term goes. If I were your son, I 
should n't mind you, though you rapt me 
with the scissors. But, Lord ! I should be 
out of favour when the little un be comm'd. 
You have made an uncle of me, you have, 
and I don't know what to make of myself. 
I suppose next there will be a nevey. You 
say in my last, write directly. I have not 
received your letter above ten days. The 
thought of your little girl puts me in mind 



4o6 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



of a thing I heard a Mr. Lamb say. A 
child in arms was passing by towards its 
mother, in the nurse's arms. Lamb took 
hold of the long clothes, saying : ' Where, 
God bless me, where does it leave off ? ' 

Saturday [September 25] . 
If yon would prefer a joke or two to 
anything else, I have two for you, fresh 
hatched, just ris, as the bakers' wives say 
by the rolls. The first I played off on 
Brown ; the second I played on myself. 
Brown, when he left me, ' Keats,' says he, 
' my good fellow ' (staggering upon his left 
heel and fetching an irregular pirouette 
with his right) ; ' Keats,' says he (depress- 
ing his left eyebrow and elevating his right 
one), though by the way at the moment I 
did not know which was the right one ; 
' Keats,' says he (still in the same posture, 
but furthermore both his hands in his waist- 
coat pockets and putting out his stomach), 
' Keats — my — go-o-ood fell-o-o-ooh,' says 
he (interlarding his exclamation with cer- 
tain ventriloquial parentheses), — no, this 
is all a lie — He was as sober as a judge, 
when a judge happens to be sober, and 
said: 'Keats, if any letters come for me, 
do not forward them, but open them and 
give me the marrow of them in a few 
words.' At the time I wrote my first to 
him no letter had arrived. I thought I 
would invent one, and as I had not time to 
manufacture a long one, I dabbed off a 
short one, and that was the reason of the 
joke succeeding beyond my expectations. 
Brown let his house to a Mr. Benjamin — a 
Jew. Now, the water which furnishes the 
house is in a tank, sided witii a composition 
of lime, and the lime impregnates the water 
unpleasantly. Taking advantage of this 
circumstance, I pretended that Mr. Benja- 
min had written the following short note — 

Sir — By drinking your damn'd tank 
water I have got the gravel. What repa- 
ration can you make to me and my family ? 
Nathan Benjamin. 



By a fortunate hit, I hit upon his right 
— heathen name — his right pronomen. 
Brown in consequence, it appears, wrote to 
the surprised Mr. Benjamin the foUow- 



SiR — I cannot offer you any remunera- 
tion until your gravel shall have formed 
itself into a stone — when I will cut you 
with pleasure. C. Brown. 

This of Brown's Mr. Benjamin has an- 
swered, insisting on an explanation of this 
singular circumstance. B. says : ' When I 
read your letter and his following, I roared; 
and in came Mr. Snook, who on reading 
them seem'd likely to burst the hoops of 
his fat sides.' So the joke has told well. 

Now for the one I played on myself. I 
must first give you the scene and the dra- 
matis personjB. There are an old major 
and his youngish wife here in the next ap- 
partments to me. His bedroom door opens 
at an angle with my sitting-room door. 
Yesterday I was reading as demurely as a 
parish clerk, when I heard a rap at the 
door. I got up and opened it; no one was 
to be seen. I listened, and heard some one 
in the major's room. Not content with 
this, I went upstairs and down, looked in 
the cupboards and watch'd. At last I set 
myself to read again, not qiiite so demurely, 
when there came a louder rap. I was de- 
termined to find out who it was. I looked 
out; the staircases were all silent. 'This 
must be the major's wife,' said I. * At all 
events I will see the truth.' So I rapt me 
at the major's door and went in, to the utter 
surprise and confusion of the lady, who was 
in reality there. After a little explanation, 
which I can no more describe than fly, I 
made my retreat from lier, convinced of my 
mistake. She is to all appearance a silly 
body, and is really surprised about it. She 
must have been, for 1 have discovered that 
a little girl in the house was the rapper. I 
assure yoti she has nearly made me sneeze. 
If the lady tells tits, I shall put a very 



TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 



407 



j-rave and moral face on the matter with 
;he old gentleman, and make his little boy 
present of a humming top. 

[Monday, September 27.] 
My DEAR George — This Monday morn- 
ng, the 27th, I have received your last, 
lated 12th July. You say you have not 

eard from England for three months. 
Then my letter from Shanklin, written, I 
;hink, at the end of June, has not reach'd 

ou. You shall not have cause to think I 
leglect you. I have kept this back a little 
;ime in expectation of hearing from Mr. 
(Ibbey. You will say I might have re- 
nained in town to be Abbey's messenger 
n these affairs. That I offered him, but 
le in his answer convinced me that he was 
mxious to bring the business to an issue. 
He observed, that by being himself the 

,gent in the whole, people might be more 

ixpeditious. You say you have not heard 
for three months, and yet your letters have 
;he tone of knowing how our affairs are 
situated, by which I conjecture I acquainted 
you with them in a letter previous to the 
Shanklin one. That I may not have done. 
To be certain, I will here state that it is in 
consequence of Mrs. Jennings threatening a 
chancery suit that you have been kept from 
the receipt of monies, and myself deprived 
of any help from Abbey. I am glad you say 
you keep up yoisr spirits. I hope you make 
a true statement on that score. Still keep 
them up, for we are all young. I can only 
repeat here that you shall hear from me 
again immediately. Notwithstanding this 
bad intelligence, I have experienced some 
pleasure in receiving so correctly two let- 
ters from you, as it gives me, if I may so 
say, a distant idea of proximity. This last 
improves upon my little niece — kiss her 
for me. Do not fret yourself about the 
delay of money on account of my imme- 
diate opportunity being lost, for in a new 
country whoever has money must have an 
opportunity of emjdojing it in many ways. 
The report runs now more in favour of 



Kean stopping in England. If he should, 
I have confident hopes of our tragedy. If 
he invokes the hot-blooded character of 
Ludolph, — and he is the only actor that 
can do it, — he will add to his own fame 
and improve my fortune. I will give you 
a half-dozen lines of it before I part as a 
specimen — 

Not as a swordsman would I pardon crave, 
But as a son : the bronz'd Centurion, 
Long-toil'd in foreign wars, and whose high 

deeds 
Are shaded in a forest of tall spears, 
Known only to his troop, hath greater plea 
Of favour with ray sire than I can have. 

Believe me, my dear brother and sister, 
your affectionate and anxious Brother 

John Keats. 



130. TO 

If George succeeds it will be better, 
certainly, that they should stop in America; 
if not, why not return ? It is better in ill 
luck to have at least the comfort of one's 
friends than to be shipwrecked among 
Americans. But I have good hopes as far 
as I can judge from what I have heard of 
George. He should by this time be taught 
alertness and carefulness. If they should 
stop in America for five or six years let us 
hope they may have about three children. 
Then the eldest will be getting old enough 
to be society. The very crying will keep 
their ears employed and their spirits from 
being melancholy. 



131. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 

Winchester, September 22, 1819. 
My dear Reynolds — I was very glad 
to hear from Woodhouse that you would 
meet in the country. I hope you will pass 
some pleasant time together. Which I wish 
to make pleasanter by a brace of letters, 
very highly to be estimated, as really I 



4o8 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



have had very bad luck with this sort of 
game this season. I ' kepen in solitaii- 
iiesse,' for Brown has gone a-visiting. I 
am surprised myself at the pleasure I live 
alone in, I can give you no news of the 
place here, or any other idea of it but what 
I have to this effect written to George. 
Yesterday I say to him was a grand day 
for Winchester. They elected a Mayor. 
It was indeed high time the place should 
receive some sort of excitement. There 
was nothing going on : all asleep : not an 
old maid's sedan returning from a card 
party: and if any old woman got tipsy at 
Christenings they did not expose it in the 
streets. The first night though of our ar- 
rival here, there was a slight uproar took 
place at about 10 o' the Clock. We heard 
distinctly a noise pattering down the High 
Street as of a walking cane of the good old 
Dowager breed ; and a little minute after 
we heard a less voice observe ' What a 
noise the ferril made — it must be loose.' 
Brown wanted to call the constables, but I 
observed 't was only a little breeze and 
would soon pass over. — The side streets 
here are excessively maiden-lady-like : the 
door-steps always fresh from the flannel. 
The knockers have a staid serious, nay al- 
most awful quietness about them. I never 
saw so quiet a collection of Lions' and 
Rams' heads. The doors are most part 
black, with a little brass handle just above 
the keyhole, so that in Winchester a man 
may very quietly shut himself out of his 
own house. How beautiful the season is 
now — How fine the air. A temperate 
sharpness about it. Really, without joking, 
chaste weather — Dian skies — I never 
liked stubble-fields so much as now — Aye 
better than the chilly green of the Spring. 
Somehow, a stubble-field looks warm — in 
the same way that some pictures look 
warm. This struck me so much in my 
Sunday's walk that I composed upon it. 
[The Ode to Autumn, p. 213.] 

I hope you are better employed than in 
gaping after weather. I have been at dif- 



ferent times so happy as not to know what 
weather it was — No I will not copy a 
parcel of verses. I always somehow assO' 
ciate Chatterton with autumn. He is the 
purest writer in the English Language 
He has no French idiom or particles, like 
Chaucer — 't is genuine English Idiom in 
English words. I have given up Hyperion 

— there were too many Miltonic inversions 
in it — Miltonic verse cannot be written 
but in an artful, or, rather, artist's humour. 
I wish to give myself up to other sensa- 
tions. English ought to be kept up. It 
may be interesting to you to pick out some 
lines from Hyperion, and put a mark X to 
the false beauty proceeding from art, and 
one II to the true voice of feeling. Upon 
my soul 't was imagination — I cannot make 
the distinction — Every now and then there 
is a Miltonic intonation — But I cannot 
make the division properly. The fact is, I 
must take a walk : for I am writing a long 
letter to George: and have been employed 
at it all the morning. You will ask, have 
I heard from George. I am sorry to say 
not the best news — I hope for better. 
This is the reason, among others, that if I 
write to you it must be in such a scrap-like 
way. I have no meridian to date interests 
from, or measure circumstances — To-night 
I am all in a mist ; I scarcely know what 's 
what — But you knowing my unsteady and 
vagarish disposition, will guess that all this 
turmoil will be settled by to-morrow morn- 
ing. It strikes me to-night that I have led 
a very odd sort of life for the two or three 
last years — Here and there — no anchor — 
I am glad of it. — If you can get a peep at 
Babbicombe before you leave the country, 
do. — I think it the finest place I have 
seen, or is to be seen, in the South. There 
is a Cottage there I took warm water at, 
that made up for the tea. I have lately 
shirk'd some friends of ours, and I advise 
you to do the same, I mean the blue-devils 

— I am never at home to them. You need 
not fear them while you remain in Devon- 
shire — there will be some of the family 



TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE 



409 



waiting for you at the Coach office — but 
go by another Coach. 

I shall beg leave to have a third opinion 
in the first discussion you have with Wood- 
house — just half-way, between both. You 
know I will not give up my argument — 
In my walk to-day I stoop'd under a rail- 
ing that lay across my path, and asked 
myself ' Why I did not get over.' ' Be- 
cause,' answered I, ' no one wanted to force 
you under.' I would give a guinea to be a 
reasonable man — good sound sense — a 
saj's what he thinks and does what he says 
man — and did not take snuff. They say 
men near death, however mad they may 
have been, come to their senses — I hope I 
shall here in this letter — there is a decent 
space to be very sensible in — many a good 
proverb has been in less — nay, I have 
heard of the statutes at large being changed 
into the Statutes at Small and printed for 
a watch paper. 

Your sisters, by this time, must have got 
the Devonshire ' ees ' — short ees — you 
know 'em — they are the prettiest ees in 
the language. O how I admire the middle- 
sized delicate Devonshire girls of about 
fifteen. There was one at an Inn door 
holding a quartern of brandy — the very 
thought of her kept me warm a whole 
stage — and a 16 miler too — ' You '11 
pardon me for being jocular.' 

Ever your affectionate friend 

John Keats. 

132. TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE 

Winchester, Wednesday Eve. 
[September 22, 1819.] 

My dear Dilke — Whatever I take 
to for the time I cannot leave off in a 
hurry ; letter writing is the go now ; I 
have consumed a quire at least. You must 
give me credit, now, for a fi"ee Letter when 
it is in reality an interested one, on two 
points, the one requestive, the other verg- 
ing to the pros and cons. As I expect they 
will lead me to seeing and conferring; with 



you in a short time, I shall not enter at all 
upon a letter I have lately received from 
George, of not the most comfortable in- 
telligence: but proceed to these two points, 
which if you can theme out into sections 
and subsections, for my edification, you will 
oblige me. This first I shall begin upon, 
the other will follow like a tail to a Comet. 
I have written to Brown on the subject, 
and can but go over the same ground with 
you in a very short time, it not being more 
in length than the ordinary paces between 
the Wickets. It concerns a resolution I 
have taken to endeavour to acquire some- 
thing by temporary writing in periddical 
works. You must agree with me how un- 
wise it is to keep feeding upon hopes, 
which depending so much on the state of 
temper and imagination, appear gloomy or 
bright, near or afar off, just as it happens. 
Now an act has three parts — to act, to do, 
and to perform — I mean I should do some- 
thing for my immediate welfare. Even if 
I am swept away like a spider from a 
drawing-i"oom, I am determined to spin — 
homespun anything for sale. Yea, I will 
traffic. Anything but Mortgage my Brain 
to Blackwood. I am determined not to lie 
like a dead lump. If Reynolds had not 
taken to the law, would he not be earning 
something ? Why cannot I. You may say 
I want tact — that is easily acquired. You 
may be up to the slang of a cock pit in 
three battles. It is fortunate I have not 
before this been tempted to venture on the 
common. I should a year or two ago have 
spoken my mind on every subject with the 
utmost simplicity. I hope I have learned 
a little better and am confident I shall be 
able to cheat as well as any literary Jew of 
the Market and shine up an article on an}-- 
thing without much knowledge of the sub- 
ject, aye like an orange. I would willingly 
have recourse to other means. I cannot ; 
I am fit for nothing but literature. Wait 
for the issue of this Tragedy ? No — 
there cannot be greater uncertainties east, 
west, north, and south than concerning 



4IO 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



dramatic composition. How many months 
must I wait ! Had I not better begin to 
look about me now ? If better events 
supersede this necessity what harm will be 
done ? I have no trust whatever on Poetry 
I don't wonder at it — the marvel is to me 
how people read so much of it. I think 
yon will see the reasonableness of my plan. 
To forward it I purpose living in cheap 
Lodging in Town, that I may be in the 
reach of books and information, of which 
there is here a plentiful lack. If I can 
find any place tolerably' comfortable I will 
settle myself and fag till I can afford to 
buy Pleasure — which if I never can afford 
I must go without. Talking of Pleasure, 
this moment I was writing with one hand, 
and with the other holding to my Mouth a 
Nectarine — Good God how fine. It went 
down soft, pnlpy, slushy, oozy — all its de- 
licious embonpoint melted down my throat 
like a large beatified Strawberry. I shall 
certainly breed. Now I come to my re- 
quest. Should you like me for a neighbour 
again ? Come, plump it out, I won't blush. 
I should also be in the neighbourhood of 
Mrs. Wylie, which I should be glad of, 
though that of course does not influence 
me. Therefore will you look about Mar- 
sham, or Rodney [Romney ?] Street for a 
couple of rooms for me. Rooms like the 
gallant's legs in Massinger's time, 'as good 
as the times allow. Sir.' I have written 
to-day to Reynolds, and to Woodhouse. 
Do you know him ? He is a Friend of 
Taylor's at whom Brown has taken one of 
his funny odd dislikes. I 'm sure he 's 
wrong, because Woodhouse likes my Poetry 
— conclusive. I ask your opinion and yet 
I must say to you as to him. Brown, that if 
you have anything to say against it I shall 
be as obstinate and heady as a Radical. 
By the Examiner coming in your hand- 
writing you must be in Town. They have 
put me into spirits. Notwithstanding my 
aristocratic temper I cannot help being very 
much pleased with the present public pro- 
ceedings. I hope sincerely I shall be able 



to put a Mite of help to the Liberal side of 
the Question before I die. If you should 
have left Town again (for your Holidays 
cannot be up yet) let me know when this is 
forwarded to you. A most extraordinary 
mischance has befallen two letters I wrote 
Brown — one from London whither I was 
obliged to go on business for George ; the 
other from this place since my return. I 
can't make it out. I am excessively sorry ; 
for it. I shall hear from Brown and from 
you almost together, for I have sent him a 
Letter to-day : you must positively agree 
with me or by the delicate toe nails of the 
virgin I will not open your Letters. If 
they are as David says ' suspicious looking 
letters ' I won't open them. If St. John had 
been half as cunning he might have seen 
the revelations comfortably in his own room, 
without giving angels the trouble of break- 
ing open seals. Remember me to Mrs. D. 
and the Westmonasteranian and believe me 
Ever your sincere friend John Keats. 

133. TO CHARLES AKMITAGE BROWN 

Winchester, September 23, 1819. 

Now I am going to enter on the subject 
of self. It is quite time I should set my- 
self doing something, and live no longer 
upon hopes. I have never yet exerted ray- 
self. I am getting into an idle-minded, 
vicious way of life, almost content to live 
upon others. In no period of my life have 
I acted with any self-will but in throw- 
ing ujj the apothecary profession. That I 
do not repent of. Look at Reynolds, if he 
was not in the law, he would be acquiring, 
by his abilities, something towards his sup- 
port. My occupation is entirely literary : 
I will do so, too. I will write, on the lib- 
eral side of the question, for whoever will 
pay me. I have not known yet what it is 
to be diligent. I purpose living in town in 
a cheap lodging, and endeavouring, for a 
beginning, to get the theatricals of some 
paper. When I can afford to compose de- 



TO CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN 



411 



jerate poems, I will. I shall be in ex- 
;ct;ition of an answer to this. Look on 
ly side of the question. I am convinced 
am right. Suppose the tragedy should 
cceed, — there will be no harm done, 
ud here I will take an opportunity of 
aking a remark or two on our friendship, 
id on all your good offices to me. I have 
natural timidity of mind in these niat- 
rs ; liking better to take the feeling be- 
men us for granted, than to speak of it. 
it, good God ! wliat a short while you 
ive known me ! 1 feel it a sort of duty 
us to recapitulate, however unpleasant it 
ay be to you. You have been living for 
hers more than any man I know. This 
a vexation to me, because it has been de- 
iving yon, in the very prime of your life, 
pleasures which it was your duty to pro- 
re. As I am speaking in general terms, 
is may appear nonsense ; you perhaps 
11 not understand it ; but if you can go 
er, day by day, any month of the last 
!ar, you will know what I mean. On the 
hole however this is a subject that I can- 
>t express myself upon — I speculate upon 
frequently ; and believe me tlie end of 
y speculations is always an anxiety for 
)ur happiness. This anxiety will not be 
le of the least incitements to the plan I 
irpose pursuing. I had got into a habit 
' mind of looking towards you as a help in 
1 difficulties — This very habit would be 
e parent of idleness and difficulties. You 
ill see it is a duty I owe myself to break 
|e neck of it. I do nothing for my sub- 
stence — make no exertion — At the end 
• another year you shall applaud me, not 
>r verses, but for conduct. While I have 
ime immediate cash, I had better settle 
yself quietly, and fag on as others do. I 
lall apply to Hazlitt, who knows the mar- 
3t as well as any one, for something to 
ring me in a few pounds as soon as possi- 
Le. I shall not suffer my pride to hinder 
le. The whisper may go round ; I shall 
)t hear it. If I can get an article in the 
dinburgh, I will. One must not be deli- 



cate — Nor let this disturb you longer than 
a moment. I look forward with a good 
hope that we shall one day be passing free, 
untrammelled, unanxious time together. 
That can never be if I continue a dead 
lump. I shall be expecting anxiously an 
answer from you. If it does not arrive in 
a few d.ays this will have miscarried, and I 

shall come straight to before I go to 

town, which you I am sure will agree had 
better be done while I still have some ready 
cash. By the middle of October I shall 
expect you in London. We will then set 
at the theatres. If you have anything to 
gainsay, I shall be even as the deaf adder 
which stoppeth her ears. 



151. TO THE SAME 

Winchester, September 23, 1819. 

Do not suffer me to disturb you unplea- 
santly : I do not mean that you should not 
suffer me to occupy your thoughts, but to 
occupy them pleasantly; for I as-!ure you I 
am as far from being unhappy as possible. 
Imaginary grievances have always been 
more my torment tlian real ones — You 
know this well — Real ones will never have 
any other effect upon me than to stimulate 
me to get out of or avoid them. This is 
easily accounted for — Our imaginary woes 
are conjured up by our passions, and are 
fostered by passionate feeling : our real 
ones come of themselves, and are opposed 
by an abstract exertion of mind. Real 
grievances are displacers of passion. The 
imaginary nail a man down for a sufferer, 
as on a cross; the real spur him up into an 
agent. I wisli, at one view, you would see 
my heart towards you 'Tis only from a 
high tone of feeling that I can put that 
word upon paper — out of poetry. I ought 
to have waited for your answer to my last 
before I wrote this. I felt however com- 
pelled to make a joinder to yours. I 
had written to Dilke on the subject of my 



412 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



last, I scarcely know whether I shall send 
my letter now. I think be would approve 
of my plan ; it is so evident. Nay, I am 
convinced, out and out, that by prosing for 
a while in periodical works I may maintain 
myself decently. 



135. TO CHARLES WEKTWORTH DILKB 

Winchester, Friday, October 1 [1819]. 

My dear Dilke — For sundry reasons, 
which I will explain to you when I come to 
Town, I have to request you will do me a 
great favour as I must call it knowing how 
great a Bore it is. That your imagination 
may not have time to take too great an 
alarm I state immediately that I want you 
to hire me a couple of rooms (a Sitting 
Room and bed room for myself alone) in 
Westminster. Quietness and cheapness 
are the essentials : but as I shall with Brown 
be returned by next Friday you cannot in 
that space have sufficient time to make any 
choice selection, and need not be very par- 
ticular as I can when on the spot suit my- 
self at leisure. Brown bids me remind you 
not to send the Examiners after the third. 
Tell Mrs. D. I am obliged to her for the 
late ones which I see are directed in her 
hand. Excuse this mere business letter for 
I assure you I have not a syllable at hand 
on any subject in the world. 

Your sincere friend John Keats. 

ISfi. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 

Winchester, Sunday Morn [October 3, 1819]. 
My dear Haydon — Certainly I might: 
but a few Months pass away before we are 
aware. I have a great aversion to letter 
vrriting, which grows more and more upon 
me ; and a greater to summon up circum- 
stances before me of an unpleasant nature. 
I was not willing to trouble you with them. 
Conld I have dated from my Palace of 
Milan you would have heard from me. 
Not even now will I mention a word of my 



affairs — only that ' I Rab am here ' bt 
shall not be here more than a Week mon 
as I purpose to settle in Town and wor 
my way with the rest. I hope I shall nev( 
be so silly as to injure my health and ii 
dustry for the future by speaking, writir 
or fretting about my nou- estate. I ha^ 
no quarrel, I assure you, of so weighty 
nature, with the woi*ld, on my own accoiu 
as I have on youi's. I have done nothiii 
— except for the amusement of a few pei 
pie who refine upon their feelings till an^ 
thing in the understandable way will g 
down with them — people predisposed f( 
sentiment. I have no cause to complai 
because I am certain anything really fli 
will in these days be felt. I have no doul 
that if I had written Othello I should lm\ 
been cheered by as good a mob as Hun 
So would you be now if the operation < 
painting was as universal as that of Wri 
ing. It is not : and therefore it did beho^ 
men I could mention among whom I mu 
place Sir George Beaumont to have lift( 
you up above sordid cares. That this hi 
not been done is a disgrace to the countr 
I know very little of Painting, yet yoi 
pictures follow me into the Country. Wh( 
I am tired of reading I often think the 
over and as often condemn the spirit < 
modern Connoisseurs. Upon the whol 
indeed, you have no complaint to make, b 
ing able to say what so few Men can, ' 
have succeeded.' On sitting down to wri 
a few lines to you these are the uppermo 
in my mind, and, however I may be beatii 
about the arctic while your spirit has pass( 
the line, you may lay to a minute and co 
sider I am earnest as far as I can se 
Though at this present ' I have great di 
positions to write ' I feel every day more ai 
more content to read. Books are beeomii 
more interesting and valuable to me. I nu 
say I could not live without them. If in tl 
course of a fortnight you can procure me 
ticket to the British Museum I will make 
better use of it than I did in the first i 
stance. I shall go on with patience in tl 



TO FANNY BRAWNE 



413 



)nfidence that if I ever do anything worth 

•niemberiug the Reviewers will no more 

3 able to stumble-block me than the 

oyal Academy could you. They have the 

me quarrel with you that the Scotch 

bbles had with Wallace. The fame they 

•vve lost through you is no joke to them. 

ad it not been for you Fuseli would have 

en not as he is major but maximus domo. 

I^hat Reviewers can put a hindrance to 

iust be — a nothing — or mediocre which 

I worse. I am sorry to say that since I 

w you I have been guilty of a practical 

ke upon Brown which has had all the 

tccess of an innocent Wildfire among 
ople. Some day in the next week you 
all hear it from me by word of Mouth. 
i have not seen the portentous Book which 
^as skuramer'd at you just as I left town, 
t may be light enough to serve yon as a 
'ork Jacket and save you for a while the 
I'ouble of swimming. I heard the Man 
"^ent raking and rummaging about like any 
bichardson. That and the Memoirs of 
lenage are the first I shall be at. From 
r. G. B.'s, Lord Ms ^* and particularly Sr. 
ohn Leicesters good lord deliver us. I 
hall expect to see your Picture plumped 
ut like a ripe Peach — you would not be 
ery willing to give me a slice of it. I 
ame to this place in the hopes of meeting 
nth a Library but was disappointed. The 
ligh Street is as quiet as a Lamb. The 
nockers are dieted to three raps per diem. 
?he walks about are interesting from the 
aany old Buildings and archways. The 
iew of the High Street through the Gate 
f the City in the beautiful September 
vening light has amused me frequently, 
["he bad singing of the Cathedral I do not 
are to smoke — being by myself I am not 
ery coy in my taste. At St. Cross there 
3 an interesting picture of Albert Diirer's 
— who living in such warlike times perhaps 
sras forced to paint in his Gauntlets — so 
ve must make all allowances. 
I am, my dear Haydou, Yours ever 

John Keats. 



Brown has a few words to say to you and 
will cross this. 



137. TO FANNY BRAWNE 

College Street. 
[Postmark, October 11, 1819.] 

My sweet Girl — I am living today in 
yesterday : I was in a complete fascination 
all day. I feel myself at your mercy. 
Write me ever so few lines and tell me you 
will never for ever be less kind to me than 
yesterday. — You dazzled me. There is no- 
thing in the world so bright and delicate. 
When Brown came out with that seem- 
ingly true story against me last night, I 
felt it would be death to me if you had 
ever believed it — though against any one 
else I could muster up my obstinacy. 
Before I knew Brown could disprove it I 
was for the moment miserable. When 
shall we pass a day alone ? I have had a 
thousand kisses, for which with my whole 
soul I thank love — but if you should deny 
me the thousand and first — 't would put 
me to the proof how great a misery I could 
live through. If you should ever carry 
your threat yesterday into execution — 
believe me 't is not my jjride, my vanity or 
any petty passion would torment me — 
really 't would hurt my heart — I could not 
bear it. I have seen Mrs. Dilke this morn- 
ing ; she says she will come with me any 
fine day. Ever yours John Keats. 

Ah hert^ mine ! 

138. TO THE SAME 

25 College Street. 
[Postmark, October 13, 1819.] 

My DEAREST Girl — This moment I 
have set myself to copy some verses out 
fair. I cannot proceed with any degree of 
content. I must write you a line or two 
and see if that will assist in dismissing you 
from my Mind for ever so short a time. 
Upon my Soul I can think of nothing else. 
The time is passed when I had power to 



414 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



advise and warn you against the unpromis- 
ing morning of my Life. My love has 
made me selfish. I cannot exist without 
you. I am forgetful of everything but 
seeing you again — my Life seems to stop 
there — I see no further. You have ab- 
sorb'd me. I have a sensation at the pre- 
sent moment as though I was dissolving — 
I should be exquisitely miserable without 
the hope of soon seeing you. I should be 
afraid to separate myself far from you. 
My sweet Fanny, will your heart never 
change ? My love, will it ? I have no 
limit now to my love. . . . Your note came 
in just here. I cannot be happier away 
from you. 'T is richer than any Argosy of 
Pearles. Do not threat me even in jest. 
I have been astonished that Men could die 
Martyrs for religion — I have shudder'd 
at it. I shudder no more — I could be 
martyr'd for my Religion — Love is my 
religion — I could die for that. I could 
die for you. My Creed is Love and you 
are its only tenet. You have ravish'd me 
away by a Power I cannot resist ; and yet 
I could resist till I saw you ; and even 
since I have seen you I have endeavoured 
often ' to reason against the reasons of my 
Love.' I can do that no more — the pain 
would be too great. My love is selfish. 
I cannot breatlie without you. 

Yours for ever John Keats. 

139. TO FANNY KEATS 

Wentworth Place [October 16, 1819]. 
My DEAR Fanny — My Conscience is 
always reproaching me for neglecting you 
for so long a time. I have been returned 
from Winchester this fortnight, and as yet 
I have not seen you. I have no excuse to 
offer — I should have no excuse. I shall 
expect to see you the next time I call on 
Mr. A. about George's affairs which per- 
plex me a great deal — I should have to- 
day gone to see if you were in town — but 
as I am in an industrious humour (which 
is so necessary to my livelihood for the 



future) I am loath to break through 
though it be n«erely for one day, for whei 
I am inclined I can do a great deal in 
day — I am more fond of pleasure thai 
study (many men have preferr'd the la 
ter) but I have become resolved to kno 
something which you will credit when 
tell you I have left off animal food that m 
brains may never henceforth be in a great- ■ 
er mist than is theirs by nature — I took 
lodgings in Westminster for the purpose of 
being in the reach of Books, but am now 
returned to Hampstead being induced to it 
by the habit I have acquired in this room I 
am now in and also from the pleasure of 
being free from paying any petty atten- 
tions to a diminutive house-keeping. Mr. 
Brown has been my great friend for some 
time — without him I should have been in^ 
perhaps, personal distress — as I know you 
love me though I do not deserve it, I am 
sure you will take pleasure in being a 
friend to Mr. Brown even before you know 
him. — My lodgings for two or three days 
were close in the neighbourhood of Mrs 
Dilke who never sees me but she enquires 
after you — I have had letters from 
George lately which do not contain, as I 
think I told you in my last, the best news 
— I have hopes for the best — I trust in a 
good termination to his affairs which you 
please God will soon hear of — It is better 
you should not be teased with the particu- 
lars. The whole amount of the ill news is 
that his mercantile speculations have not 
had success in consequence of the general 
depression of trade in the whole province 
of Kentucky and indeed all America. — 
I have a couple of shells for you you will 
call pretty. 

Your affectionate Brother John . 

140. TO fanny brawne 

Great Smith Street, 

Tuesday Morn. 
[Postmark, College Street, October 19, 1819]. 
My swert Fanny — On awakening 
from my three days dream ('I cry to 



TO JOHN TAYLOR 



415 



dream again') I find one and another 
astonish'd at uiy idleness and thoughtless- 
ness. I was miserable last night — the 
morning is always restorative. I must be 
busy, or try to be so. I have several 
things to speak to you of tomorrow morn- 
ing. Mrs. Dilke I should think will tell 
you that I purpose living at Hampstead. 
I must impose chains upon myself. I 
shall be able to do nothing. I should like 
to cast the die for Love or death. I have 
no Patience with anytliing else — if you 
ever intend to be cruel to me as you say 
in jest now but perhaps may sometimes 
be in earnest, be so now — and I will — 
my mind is in a tremble, I cannot tell what 
I am writing. 

Ever ray love yours John Keats. 

141. TO JOSEPH SEVERN 

Wentworth Place, Wednesday 
[October 27 ? 1819]. 

Dear Severn — Either your joke about 
staying at home is a very old one or I really 
call'd. I don't remember doing so. I am 
glad to hear you have fluish'd the Picture 
and am more anxious to see it than I have 
time to spare : for I have been so very lax, 
unemployed, unmeridian'd, and objectless 
these two months that I even grudge in- 
dulging (and that is no great indulgence 
considering the Lecture is not over till 9 
and the lecture room seven miles from 
Wentsvorth Place) myself by going to 
Hazlitt's Lecture. If you have hours to 
the amount of a brace of dozens to throw 
away you may sleep nine of them here in 
your little Crib and chat the rest. When 
your Picture is up and in a good light I 
shall make a point of meeting you at the 
Academy if you will let me know when. 
If you should be at the Lecture to-morrow 
evening I shall see you — and congratulate 
yon heartily — Haslam I know ' is very 
Beadle to an amorous sigh.' 

Your sincere friend John Keats. 



112, TO JOHN TAYLOR 

Wentworth Place, Hampstead, 
November 17 [1S19]. 

My dear Taylor — I have come to a 
determination not to publish anything I 
have now ready written : but, for all that, 
to publish a poem before long, and that I 
hope to make a fine one. As the marvel- 
lous is the most enticing, and the surest 
guarantee of harmonious numbers, I have 
been endeavouring to persuade myself to 
untether Fancy, and to let her manage for 
herself. I and myself cannot agree about 
this at all. Wonders are no wonders to me. 
I am more at home amongst men and 
women. I would rather read Chaucer than 
Ariosto. The little dramatic skill I may as 
yet have, however badly it might show iu a 
drama, would, I think, be sufficient for a 
poem. I wish to diffuse the colouring of St. 
Agnes's Eve throughout a poem in which 
character and sentiment would be the 
figures to such drapery. Two or three such 
poems, if God should spare me, written in 
the course of the next six years, would be a 
famous Gradus ad Parnassum altissimum 
— I mean they would nerve me up to the 
writing of a few fine plays — my greatest 
ambition, when I do feel ambitious. I am 
sorry to say that is very seldom. The 
subject we have once or twice talked of 
appears a promising one — The Earl of 
Leicester's history. I am this morning 
reading Holinshed's 'Elizabeth.' You had 
some books a while ago you promised to 
send me, illustrative of my subject. If 
you can lay hold of them, or any others 
which may be serviceable to me, I know you 
will encourage my low-spirited muse by 
sending them, or rather by letting me know 
where o>ir errand-cart man shall call with 
my little box. I wdl endeavour to set my- 
self selfishly at work on this poem that is 
to be. 

Your sincere friend 

John Keats. 



4i6 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



143. TO FANNY KEATS 

Wednesday Morn — 

[November 17, 1819]. 

M.Y DEAR Fanny — I received your let- 
ter yesterday Evening and will obey it to- 
morrow. I would come to - day — but I 
have been to Town so frequently on 
George's Business it makes me wish to 
employ to-day at Hampstead. So I say 
Thursday without fail. I have no news at 
all entertaining — and if I had I should 
not have time to tell them as I wish to 
send this by the morning Post. 

Your affectionate Brother 

John. 



144. TO JOSEPH SEVERN 

Went worth Place, Monday Morn — 
[December 6 ? 1819]. 

My dear Severn — I am very sorry 
that on Tuesday I have an appointment in 
the City of an undeferable nature ; and 
Brown on the same day has some business 
at Guildhall. I have not been able to 
figure your manner of executing the Cave 
of despair,^^ therefore it will be at any 
rate a novelty and surprise to me — I trust 
on the right side. I shall call upon you 
some morning shortly, early enough to 
catch you before you can get out — when 
we will proceed to the Academy. I think 
you must be suited with a good painting 
light in your Bay window. I wish you to 
return the Compliment by going with me 
to see a Poem I have hung up for the 
Prize in the Lecture Boom of the Surry 
Institution. I have many Rivals, the most 
threatening are An Ode to Lord Castle- 
reagh, and a new series of Hymns for the 
New, new Jerusalem Chapel. (You had 
best put me into your Cave of despair.) 
Ever yours sincerely 

John Keats. 



145. TO JAMES rice 

Wentworth Place [December 1819]. 
My dear Rice — As I want the coat on 
my back mended, I would be obliged if 
you would send me the one Brown left at 
your house by the Bearer — During your 
late contest I had regular reports of you, 
how that your time was completely taken 
up and your health improving — I shall 
call in the course of a few days, and see 
whether your promotion has made any dif- 
ference in your Behaviour to us. I sup- 
pose Reynolds has given you an account of 
Brown and EUiston. As he has not rejected 
our Tragedy, I shall not venture to call 
him directly a fool ; but as he wishes to 
put it off till next season, I cannot help 
thinking him little better than a knave. — 
That it will not be acted this season is yet 
uncertain. Perhaps we may give it another 
furbish and try it at Covent Garden. 
'T would do one's heart good to see Ma- 
cready m Ludolph. If you do not see me 
soon it will be from the humour of writing, 
which I have had for three days continuing. 
I must say to the Muses what the maid 
says to the Man — ' Take me while the 
fit is on me.' Would you like a true 
story ? ' There was a man and his wife 
who being to go a long Journey on foot, in 
the course of their travels came to a river 
which rolled knee-deep over the pebbles — 
In these cases the man generally pulls off 
his shoes and stockings, and carries the 
woman over on his back. This man did so. 
And his wife being pregnant and troubled, 
as in such case is very common, with 
strange longings, took the strangest that 
ever was heard of. Seeing her husband's 
foot, a handsome one enough, looked very 
clean and tempting in the clear water, on 
their arrival at the other bank, she ear- 
nestly demanded a bit of it. He being an 
affectionate fellow, and fearing for the 
comeliness of his child, gave her a bit 



TO FANNY KEATS 



417 



which he cut off with his clasp knife — 
Not satisfied, she asked for another morsel. 
Supposing there might be twins, he gave 
her a slice more. Not yet contented she 
craved another piece. " You wretch," cries 
the man, " would you wish me to kill my- 
self ? Take that " — upon which he stabbed 
her with the knife, cut her open, and found 
three children in her Belly : two of them 
very comfortable with their mouths shut, 
the third with its eyes and mouth stark 
1 staring wide open. " Who would have 
j thought it ? " cried the widower, and pur- 
sued his journey.' Brown has a little 
rumbling in his stomach this morning. 
Ever yours sincerely John KjiATS. 

146. TO FANNY KEATS 

Wentworth Place, Monday Morn — 
[December 20, 1819]. 

My dear Fanny — When I saw you 
last, you ask'd me whether you should see 
me again before Christmas. You would 
have seen me if I had been quite well. I 
have not, though not unwell enough to have 
prevented me — not indeed at all — but 
fearful lest the weather should affect my 
throat which on exertion or cold continually 
threatens me. — By the advice of my Doctor 
I have had a warm great Coat made and 
have ordered some thick shoes — so f ur- 
nish'd I shall be with you if it holds a little 
fine before Christmas day. — I have been 
very busy since I saw you, especially the 
last Week, and shall be for some time, in 
preparing some Poems to come out in the 
Spring, and also in brightening the inter- 
est of our Tragedy. — Of the Tragedy I 
can give you but news semigood. It is 
accepted at Drury Lane with a promise of 
coming out next season : as that will be too 
long a delay we have determined to get 
EUiston to bring it out this Season or to 
transfer it to Covent Garden. This Ellis- 
ton will not like, as we have every motive 
to believe that Kean has perceived how 
suitable the principal Character will be for 



him. My hopes of success in the literary 
world are now better than ever. Mr. Ab- 
bey, on my calling on him lately, appeared 
anxious that I should apply myself to 
something else — He mentioned Tea Brok- 
erage. I supposed he might perhaps mean 
to give me the Brokerage of his concern 
which might be executed with little trouble 
and a good profit ; and therefore sai^ I 
should have no objection to it, especially as 
at the same time it occurred to me that I 
might make over the business to George — 
I questioned him about it a few days after. 
His mind takes odd turns. When I be- 
came a Suitor he became coy. He did not 
seem so much inclined to serve me. He 
described what I should have to do in the 
progress of business. It will not suit me. I 
have given it up. I have not heard again 
from George, which rather disappoints me, 
as I wish to hear before I make any fresh 
remittance of his property. I received a 
note from Mrs. Dilke a few days ago in- 
viting me to dine with her on Xmas day 
which I shall do. Mr. Brown and I go on 
in our old dog trot of Breakfast, dinner 
(not tea, for we have left that off), supper. 
Sleep, Confab, stirring the fire and read- 
ing. Whilst I was in the Country last 
Summer, Mrs. Bentley tells me, a woman 
in mourning call'd on me, — and talk'd 
something of an aunt of ours — I am so 
careless a fellow I did not enquire, but will 
particularly : On Tuesday I am going to 
hear some Schoolboys Speechify on break- 
ing up day — I '11 lay you a pocket piece 
we shall have 'My name is Norval.' I 
have not yet look'd for the Letter you 
mention'd as it is mix'd up in a box full of 
papers — you must tell me, if you can 
recollect, the subject of it. This moment 
Bentley brought a Letter from George for 
me to deliver to Mrs. Wylie — I shall see 
her and it before I see you. The Direction 
was in his best hand written with a good 
Pen and sealed with a Tassie's Shakspeare 
such as I gave you — We judge of people's 
hearts by their Countenances ; may we not 



4i8 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



judge of Letters in the same way ? — if so, 
the Letter does not contain unpleasant news 
— Good or bad spirits have an effect on 
the handwriting. This direction is at least 
unnervous and healthy. Our Sister is also 
well, or George would have made strange 
work with Ks and Ws. The little Baby is 
well or he would have formed precious 
vowels and Consonants — He sent off the 
Letter in a hurry, or the mail bag was 
rather a warm berth, or he has worn out 
his Seal, for the Shakspeare's head is flat- 
tened a little. This is close muggy weather 
as they say at the Ale houses. 

I am ever, my dear Sister, yours affec- 
tionately John Keats. 

147. TO THE SAME 

Wentworth Place, Wednesday. 
[December 22, 1819.] 

My DEAR Fanny — I wrote to you a 
Letter directed Walthamstow the day be- 
fore yesterday wherein I promised to see 
you before Christmas day. I am sorry to 
say I have been and continue rather unwell, 
and therefore shall not be able to promise 
certainly. I have not seen Mrs. Wylie's 
Letter. Excuse my dear Fanny this very 
shabby note. 

Your affectionate Brother John. 

148. TO GEORGIANA AUGUSTA KEATS 

Thursday, January 13, 1820. 
My DEAR Sis. : By the time you receive 
this your trouble will be over. I wish you 
knew they were half over. I mean that 
George is safe in England and in good 
health. To write to you by him is almost 
like following one's own letter in the mail. 
That it may not be quite so, I will leave 
common intelligence out of the question, 
and write wide of him as I can. I fear I 
must be dull, having had no good-natured 
flip from Fortune's finger since I saw you, 
and no sideway comfort in the success of 
my friends. I could almost promise that 



if I had the means I would accompany 
George back to America, and pay you a 
visit of a few months. I should not think 
much of the time, or my absence from my 
books ; or I have no right to think, for I 
am very idle. But then I ought to be 
diligent, and at least keep myself within 
the reach of materials for diligence. Dili- 
gence, that I do not mean to say ; I should 
say dreaming over my books, or rather 
other people's books. George has promised 
to bring you to England when the five 
years have elapsed. I regret very much 
that I shall not be able to see you before 
that time, and even then I must hope that 
your affairs will be in so prosperous a way 
as to induce you to stop longer. Yours 
is a hardish fate, to be so divided among 
your friends and settled among a people 
you hate. You will find it improve. You 
have a heart that will take hold of your 
cliildren ; even George's absence will make 
things better. His return will banish what 
must be your greatest sorrow, and at the 
same time minor ones with it. Robinson 
Crusoe, when he saw himself in danger of 
perishing on the waters, looked back to his 
island as to the haven of his happiness, and 
on gaining it once more was more content 
with his solitude. We smoke George about 
his little girl. He runs the common-beaten 
road of every father, as I dare say you do 
of every mother : there is no child like 
his child, so original, — original forsooth ! 
However, I take you at your words. I 
have a lively faith that yours is the very 
gem of all children. Ain't I its uncle ? 

On Henry's marriage there was a piece of 
bride cake sent me. It missed its way. I 
suppose the carrier or coachman was a con- 
juror, and wanted it for his own private 
use. Last Sunday George and I dined at 
Millar's. There were your mother and 
Charles with Fool Lacon, Esq., who sent 
the sly, disinterested shawl to Miss Millar, 
with his own heathen name engraved in the 
middle. Charles had a silk handkerchief 
belonging to a Miss Grover, with whom he 



TO GEORGIANA AUGUSTA KEATS 



419 



pretended to be smitten, and for her sake 
kept exhibiting and adoring the handker- 
chief all the evening. Fool Lacou, Esq., 
treated it with a little venturesome, trem- 
bling contumely, whereupon Charles set him 
quietly down on the floor, from where he 
as quietly got up. This process was re- 
peated at supper time, when your mother 
said, ' If I were you Mr. Lacon I would 
not let him do so.' Fool Lacon, Esq., did 
not offer any remark. He will imdoubtedly 
die in his bed. Your mother did not look 
quite so well on Sunday. Mrs. Henry 
Wylie is excessively quiet before people. 
I hope she is always so. Yesterday we 
dined at Taylor's, in Fleet Street. George 
left early after dinner to go to Deptford ; 
he will make all square there for me. I 
could not go with him — I did not like the 
amusement. Haslam is a very good fellow 
indeed; he has been excessively anxious 
and kind to us. But is this fair ? He has 
an innamorata at Deptford, and be has been 
wanting me for some time past to see her. 
This is a thing whicb it is impossible not to 
shirk. A man is like a magnet — he must 
have a repelling end. So how am I to see 
Haslam's lady and family, if I even went ? 
for by the time I got to Greenwich I should 
have repell'd them to Blackheath, and by 
the time I got to Deptford they would be 
on Shooter's Hill ; when I came to Shooter 
Hill they would alight at Chatham, and so 
on till I drove them into the sea, which 1 
think might be indictable. The evening 
before yesterday we had a pianoforte hop at 
Dilke's. There was very little amusement 
in the room, but a Scotchman to hate. 
Some people, you must have observed, have 
a most ini pleasant effect upon you when 
you see them speaking in profile. This 
Scotchman is the most accomplished fellow 
in this way I ever met with. The effect 
was complete. It went down like a dose 
of bitter, and I hope will improve my 
digestion. At Taylor's too, there was a 
Scotchman, — not quite so bad, for he was 
as clean as he could get himself. Not hav- 



ing succeeded in Drury Lane with our 
tragedy, we have been making some altera- 
tions, and are about to try Covent Garden. 
Brown has just done patching up the copy 
— as it is altered. The reliance I had on 
it was in Kean's acting. I am not afraid 
it will be damn'd in the Garden. You said 
in one of your letters that there was no- 
thing but Haydon and Co. in mine. There 
can be nothing of him in tliis, for I never 
see him or Co. George has introduced to 
us an American of the name of Hart. I 
like him in a moderate way. He was at 
Mrs. Dilke's party — and sitting by me ; 
we began talking about English and 

American ladies. The Miss and some 

of their friends made not a very enticing 
row opposite us. I bade him mark them 
and form his judgment of them. I told 
him I hated Englishmen because they were 
the only men I knew. He does not under- 
stand this. Who would be Braggadochio 
to Johnny Bull ? Johnny's house is his 
castle — and a precious dull castle it is ; 
what a many Bull castles there are in so- 
and-so crescent ! I never wish myself an 
unversed writer and newsmonger but when 
I write to you. I should like for a day or 
two to have somebody's knowledge — Mr. 
Lacon's for instance — of all the different 
folks of a wide acquaintance, to tell you 
about. Only let me have his knowledge of 
family minutiae and I would set them in a 
proper light ; but, bless me, I never go any- 
where. My pen is no more garrulous than 
my tongue. Any third person would think 
I was addressing myself to a lover of 
scandal. But we know we do not love 
scandal, but fun ; and if scandal happens 
to be fun, that is no fault of ours. There 
were very good pickings for me in George's 
letters about the prairie settlement, if I had 
any taste to turn them to account in Eng- 
land. I knew a friend of Miss Andrews, yet 
I never mentioned her to him ; for after I 
had read the letter I really did not recol- 
lect her story. Now I have been sitting 
here half an hour with my invention at 



420 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



work, to say something about your mother 
or Charles or Henry, but it is in vain. I 
know not what to say. Three nights since, 
George went with your mother to the play. 
I hope she will soon see mine acted. I do 
not remember ever to have thanked you for 
your tassels to my Shakspeare — there he 
hangs so ably supported opposite me. I 
thank you now. It is a continual memento 
of you. If you should have a boy, do not 
christen him John, and persuade George 
not to let his partiality for me come across. 
'T is a bad name, and goes against a man. 
If my name had been Edmund I should 
have been more fortunate. 

I was surprised to hear of the state of 
society at Louisville ; it seems to me you 
are just as ridiculous there as we are here 
— threepenny parties, halfpenny dances. 
The best thing I have heard of is your 
shooting ; for it seems you follow the gun. 
Give my compliments to Mrs. Audubon, 
and tell her I cannot think her either good- 
looking or honest. Tell Mr. Audubon he 's 
a fool, and Briggs that 't is well I was not 
Mr. A. 

Saturday, January 15. 

It is strange that George having to stop 
so short a time in England, I should not 
have seen him for nearly two days. He 
has been to Haslam's and does not encour- 
age me to follow his example. He had 
given promise to dine with the same party 
to-morrow, but has sent an excuse which I 
am glad of, as we shall have a pleasant 
party with us to-morrow. We expect 
Charles here to-day. This is a beautiful 
day. I hope you will not quarrel with it 
if I call it an American one. The sun 
comes upon the snow and makes a prettier 
candy than we have on twelfth-night cakes. 
George is busy this morning in making 
copies of my verses. He is making one 
now of an ' Ode to the Nightingale,' which 
is like reading an account of the Black 
Hole at Calcutta on an iceberg. 

You will say this is a matter of course. I 
am glad it is — I mean that I should like 



your brothers more the more I know them. 
I should spend much more time with them 
if our lives were more run in parallel; but 
we can talk but on one subject — that is 
you. 

The more I know of men the more I 
know how to value entire liberality in any 
of them. Thank God, there are a great 
many who will sacrifice their worldly in- 
terest for a friend. I wish there were 
more who would sacrifice their passions. 
The worst of men are those whose self- 
interests are their passion; the next, those 
whose passions are their self - interest. 
Upon the whole I dislike mankind. "What- 
ever people on the other side of the ques- 
tion may advance, they cannot deny that 
they are always surprised at hearing of a 
good action, and never of a bad one. I am 
glad you have something to like in America 
— doves. Gertrude of Wyoming and Birk- 
beck's book should be bound up together 
like a brace of decoy ducks — one is almost 
as poetical as the other. Precious miser- 
able people at the prairie. I have been 
sitting in the sun whilst I wrote this till it 's 
become quite oppressive — this is very odd 
for January. The vulcan fire is the true 
natural heat for winter. The sun has 
nothing to do in winter but to give a little 
glooming light much like a shade. Our 
Irish servant has piqued me this morning 
by saying that her father in Ireland was 
very much like my Shakspeare, only he 
had more colour than the engraving. You 
will find on George's return that I have 
not been neglecting your affairs. The de- 
lay was unfortunate, not faulty. Perhaps 
by this time you have received my three 
last letters, not one of which had reached 
before George sailed. I would give two- 
pence to have been over the world as much 
as he has. I wish I had money enough 
to do nothing but travel about for years. 
Were you now in England I dare sa)' you 
would be able (setting aside the pleasure 
you would have in seeing your mother) to 
suck out more amusement for society than 



TO GEORGIANA AUGUSTA KEATS 



421 



I am able to do. To me it is all as dull 
here as Louisville could be. I am tired of 
the theatres. Almost all the parties I may 
chance to fall into I know by heart. I 
know the different styles of talk in differ- 
ent places, — what subjects will be started, 
bow it will proceed like an acted play, 
from the first to the last act. If I go to 
Hunt's I run my head into many tunes 
lieard before, old puns, and old music ; to 
I laydon's worn-out discourses of poetry and 

I);iinting. The Miss I am afraid to 

speak to, for fear of some sickly reiteration 
of phrase or sentiment. When they were 
at the dance the other night I tried man- 
fully to sit near and talk to them, but to 
no purpose ; and if I had it would have 
been to no purpose still. My question or 
observation must have been an old one, and 
the rejoinder very antique indeed. At 
Dilke's I fall foul of politics. 'T is best to 
remain aloof from people and like their 
good parts without being eternally troubled 
with the dull process of their every-day 
lives. When once a person has smoked 
the vapidness of the routine of society he 
must either have self-interest or the love 
of some sort of distinction to keep him in 
good humour with it. All I can say is 
that, standing at Charing Cross and look- 
ing east, west, north, and south, I can see 
nothing but dulness. I hope while I am 
young to live retired in the country. 
When I grow in years and have a right to 
be idle, I shall enjoy cities more. If the 
American ladies are worse than the English 
they must be very bad. You say you 
should like your Emily brought up here. 
You had better bring her up yourself. 
You know a good number of English ladies; 
what encomium could you give of half a 
dozen of them? The greater part seems to 
me downright American. I have known 
more than one Mrs. Audubon. Her affec- 
tation of fashion and politeness cannot 
transcend ours. Look at our Cheapside 
tradesmen's sons and daughters — only fit 
to be taken off by a plague. I hope now 



soon to come to the time when I shall never 
be forced to walk through the city and hate 
as I walk. 

Monday, January 17. 

George had a quick rejoinder to his let- 
ter of excuse to Haslam, so we had not his 
company yesterday, which I was sorry for 
as there was our old set. I know three 
witty people all distinct in their excellence 
— Rice, Reynolds, and Richards. Rice is 
the wisest, Reynolds the playfulest, Rich- 
ards the out-o'-the-wayest. The first makes 
you laugh and think, the second makes you 
laugh and not think, the third puzzles your 
head. I admire the first, I enjoy the sec- 
ond, I stare at the third. The first is 
claret, the second ginger-beer, the third 
creme de Byrapymdrag. The first is in- 
spired by Minerva, the second by Mercury, 
the third by Harlequin Epigram, Esq. The 
first is neat in his dress, the second slovenly, 
the third uncomfortable. The first speaks 
adagio, the second allegretto, the third both 
together. The first is Swiftean, the second 
Tom-Crib-ean, the third Shandean. And 
yet these three eans are not three cans but 
one ean. 

Charles came on Saturday but went 
early; he seems to have schemes and plans 
and wants to get off. He is quite right ; 
I am glad to see him employed at business. 
You remember I wrote you a story about 
a woman named Alice being made young 
again, or some such stuff. In your next 
letter tell me whether I gave it as my own, 
or whether I gave it as a matter Brown 
was employed upon at the time. He read 
it over to George the other day, and George 
said he had heard it all before. So Brown 
suspects I have been giving you his story as 
my own. I should like to set him right in 
it by your evidence. George has not re- 
turned from town ; when he does I shall 
tax his memory. We had a young, long, 
raw, lean Scotchman with us yesterday, 
called Thornton. Rice, for fun or for mis- 
take, would persist in calling him Steven- 
son. I know three people of no wit at all. 



422 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



each distinct in his excellence — A, B, and 
C. A is the foolishest, B the sulkiest, C is 
a negative. A makes you yawn, B makes 
you hate, as for C you never see him at all 
though he were six feet high — I bear the 
first, I forbear the second, I am not certain 
that the third is. The first is gruel, the 
second ditch-water, the third is spilt — he 
ought to be wip'd up. A is inspired by 
Jack-o'-the-clock, B has been drilled by a 
Russian Serjeant, C, they say, is not his 
mother's true child, but she bought him of 
the man who cries, Young lambs to sell. 

Twang-dillo-dee — This you must know 
is the amen to nonsense. I know a good 
many places where Amen should be 
scratched out, rubbed over with ponce 
made of Momus's little finger bones, and 
in its place Twang-dillo-dee written. This 
is the word I shall be tempted to write at 
the end of most modern poems. Every 
American book ought to have it. It would 
be a good distinction in society. My Lords 
Wellington and Castlereagh, and Canning, 
and many more, would do well to wear 
Twang-dillo-dee on their backs instead of 
Ribbons at their button-holes; how many 
people would go sideways along walls and 
quickset hedges to keep their ' Twang- 
dillo-dee ' out of sight, or wear large pig- 
tails to hide it. However there would be 
so many that the Twang-dillo-dees would 
keep one another in countenance — which 
Brown cannot do for me — I have fallen 
away lately. Thieves and murderers would 
gain rank in the world, for would any of 
them have the poorness of spirit to conde- 
scend to be a Twang-dillo-dee ? ' I have 
robbed many a dwelling house ; I have 
killed many a fowl, many a goose, and 
many a Man (would such a gentleman say) 
but, thank Heaven, I was never yet a 
Twang-dillo-dee.' Some philosophers in 
the moon, who spy at our globe as we do 
at theirs, say that Twang-dillo-dee is writ- 
ten in large letters on our globe of earth ; 
they say the beginning of the ' T ' is just 
on the spot where London stands, London 



being built within the flourish ; ' wan ' 
reaches downward and slants as far as 
Timbuctoo in Africa ; the tail of the ' g ' 
goes slap across the Atlantic into the Rio 
della Plata ; the remainder of the letters 
wrap around New Holland, and the last ' e ' 
terminates in land we have not yet dis- 
covered. However, I must be silent; these 
are dangerous times to libel a man in — 
much more a world. 

Friday, 27 [for 28th January, 1820]. 

I wish you would call me names: I de- 
serve them so much. I have only written 
two sheets for you, to carry by George, and 
those I forgot to bring to town and have 
therefore to forward them to Liverpool. 
George went this morning at 6 o'clock by 
the Liverpool coach. His being on his 
journey to you prevents my regretting his 
short stay. I have no news of any sort to 
tell you. Henry is wife bound in Camden 
Town; there is no getting him out. I am 
sorry he has not a prettier wife : indeed 't is 
a shame: she is not hali a wife. I think I 
could find some of her relations in Buff on, 
or Capt" Cook's voyages or the hiej'O^we- 
glyphics in Moor's Almanack, or upon a 
Chinese clock door, the shepherdesses on 
her own mantelpiece, or in a cruel sampler 
in which she may find herself worsted, or 
in a Dutch toyshop window, or one of the 
daughters in the ark, or any picture shop 
window. As I intend to retire into the 
country where there will be no sort of news, 
I shall not be able to write you very long 
letters. Besides I am afraid the postage 
comes to too much; which till now I have 
not been aware of. • 

People in military bands are generally 
seriovisly occupied. None may or can laugh 
at their work but the Kettle Drum, Loug 
Drum, Do. Triangle and Cymbals. Think- 
ing you might want a rat-catcher I put 
your mother's old quaker-colour'd cat into 
the top of your bonnet. She 's with kitten, 
so you may expect to find a whole family. 
I hope the family will not grow too large 



TO FANNY KEATS 



423 



for its lodging. I shall send you a close 
written sheet on the first of next month, 
but for fear of missing the Liverpool Post 
I must finish here. God bless you and 
your little girl. 

Your affectionate Brother 

John Keats. 



149. TO FANNY BBAWNE 

Dearest Fanny, I shall send this the 
moment you return. They say I must re- 
main confined to this room for some time. 
The consciousness that you love me will 
make a pleasant prison of the house next 
to yours. You must come and see me fre- 
I quently : this evening, without fail — when 
you must not mind about my speaking in a 
low tone for I am ordered to do so though 
I can speak out. 

Yours ever, sweetest love. — 

J. Keats. 
turn over 

Perhaps your Mother is not at home and 
so you must wait till she comes. You must 
see me tonight and let me hear you pro- 
mise to come tomorrow. 

Brown told me you were all out. I have 
been looking for the stage the whole after- 
noon. Had I known this I could not have 
remain'd so silent all day. 

150. to fanny keats 

Wentworth Place, Sunday Morning. 
[February 6, 1820.] 

My dear Sister — I should not have 
sent those Letters without some notice if 
Mr. Brown had not persuaded me against 
it on account of an illness with which I was 
attack'd on Thursday. After that I was 
resolved not to write till I should be on the 
mending hand; thank God, I am now so. 
From imprudently leaving off my great 
coat in the thaw I caught cold which flew 
to my Lungs. Every remedy that has been 
applied has taken the desired effect, and I 
have nothing now to do but stay within 



doors for some time. If I should be con- 
fined long I shall write to Mr. Abbey to 
ask permission for you to visit me. George 
has been running great chance of a similar 
attack, but I hope the sea air will be his 
Physician in case of illness — the air out at 
sea is always more temperate than on land 
— George mentioned, in his Letters to us, 
something of Mr. Abbey's regret concern- 
ing the silence kept up in his house. It 
is entirely the fault of his Manner. You 
must be careful always to wear warm cloth- 
ing not only in frost but in a Thaw. — I 
have no news to tell you. The half-built 
houses opposite us stand just as they were 
and seem dying of old age before they are 
brought up. The grass looks very dingy, 
the Celery is all gone, and there is nothing 
to enliven one but a few Cabbage Stalks 
that seem fix'd on the superannuated List. 
Mrs. Dilke has been ill but is better. 
Several of my fi-iends have been to see me. 
Mrs. Reynolds was here this morning and 
the two Mr. Wylie's. Brown has been very 
alert about me, though a little wheezy him- 
self this weather. Everybody is ill. Yester- 
day evening Mr. Davenport, a gentleman 
of Hampstead, sent me an invitation to sup- 
per, instead of his coming to see us, having 
so bad a cold he could not stir out — so you 
see 'tis the weather and I am among a 
thousand. Whenever you have an inflam- 
matory fever never mind about eating. 
The day on which I was getting ill I felt 
this fever to a great height, and therefore 
almost entirely abstained from food the 
whole day. I have no doubt experienced 
a benefit from so doing — The Papers I see 
are full of anecdotes of the late King : how 
he nodded to a Coalheaver and laugli'd with 
a Quaker and lik'd boiled Leg of Mutton. 
Old Peter Pindar is just dead: what will 
the old King and he say to each other ? 
Perhaps the King may confess that Peter 
was in the right, and Peter maintain him- 
self to have been wrong. You shall hear 
from me again on Tuesday. 

Your affectionate Brother John. 



424 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



151. TO THE SAME 

Weutworth Place, Tuesday Morn. 
[February 8, 1820.] 

My dear Fanny — I had a slight re- 
turn of fever last night, which terminated 
favourably, and I am now tolerably well, 
though weak from the small quantity of food 
to which I am obliged to confine myself: 
I am sure a mouse would starve upon it. 
Mrs. Wylie came yesterday. I have a very 
pleasant room for a sick person. A Sofa 
bed is made up for me in the front Parlour 
which looks on to the grass plot as you re- 
member Mrs. Dilke's does. How much 
more comfortable than a dull room up 
stairs, where one gets tired of the pattern 
of the bed curtains. Besides I see all that 
passes — for instance now, this morning — 
if I had been in my own room I should not 
have seen the coals brought in. On Sun- 
day between the hours of twelve and one I 
descried a Pot boy. I conjectured it might 
be the one o'Clock beer — Old women with 
bobbins and red cloaks and impresuming 
bonnets I see creeping about the heath. 
Gipsies after hare skins and silver spoons. 
Then goes by a fellow with a wooden clock 
under his arm that strikes a hundred and 
more. Then comes the old French emi- 
grant (who has been very well to do in 
France) with his hands joined behind on 
his hips, and his face full of political 
schemes. Then passes Mr. David Lewis, 
a very good-natured, good - looking old 
gentleman who has been very kind to Tom 
and George and me. As for those fellows 
the Brickmakers they are always passing 
to and fro. I mus'n't forget the two old 
maiden Ladies in Well Walk who have a 
Lap dog between them that they are very 
anxious about. It is a corpulent Little beast 
whom it is necessary to coax along with 
an ivory-tipp'd cane. Carlo our Neighbour 
Mrs. Brawne's dog and it meet sometimes. 
Lappy thinks Carlo a devil of a fellow and 
so do his Mistresses. Well they may — he 
would sweep 'em all down at a run; all for 



the Joke of it. I shall desire him to pe- 
ruse the fable of the Boys and the frogs: 
though he prefers the tongues and the 
Bones. You shall hear from me again the 
day after to-morrow. 

Your affectionate Brother 

John Keats. 

152. to fanny brawne i 

My DEAREST Girl, — If illness makes 
such an agreeable variety in the manner 
of your eyes I should wish you sometimes to 
be ill. I wish I had read your note before 
you went last night that I might have 
assured you how far I was from suspect- 
ing any coldness. You had a just right 
to be a little silent to one who speaks so 
plainly to you. You must believe — you 
shall, you will — that I can do nothing, 
say nothing, think nothing of you but what 
has its spring in the Love which has so 
long been my pleasure and torment. On 
the night I was taken ill — when so vio- 
lent a rush of blood came to my Lungs 
that I felt nearly suffocated — I assure 
you I felt it possible I might not survive, 
and at that moment thought of nothing 
but you. When I said to Brown 'this 
is unfortunate ' I thought of you. 'Tis 
true that since the first two or three days 
other subjects have entered my head. I 
shall be looking forward to Health and the 
Spring and a regular routine of our old 
Walks. 

Your affectionate J. K. 

153. TO THE SAME 

My sweet love, I shall wait patiently till 
tomorrow before I see you, and in the 
mean time, if there is any need of such a 
thing, assure you by your Beauty, that 
whenever I have at any time written on a 
certain unpleasant subject, it has been with 
your welfare impress'd upon my mind. 
How hurt I should have been had you ever 
acceded to what is, notwithstanding, very 



TO FANNY BRAWNE 



425 



reasonable ! How much the more do I 
tove you from the general result ! In my 
present state of Health I feel too much 
separated from you and could almost speak 
to you in the words of Lorenzo's Ghost to 
Isabella 

' Your Beauty grows upon me and I feel 
A greater love through all my essence steal.' 

My greatest torment since I have known 
you has been the fear of you being a little 
inclined to the Cressid ; but that suspicion 
I dismiss utterly and remain happy in the 
surety of your Love, which I assure you is 
IS much a wonder to me as a delight. Send 
me the words * Good night ' to put under 
oiy pillow. 

Dearest Fanny, 

Your affectionate J. K. 

154. TO FANNY KEATS 

Wentworth Place [February 11, 1820]. 
I My dear Fanny — I am much the 
jsame as when I last wrote. I hope a little 
|more verging towards improvement. Yes- 
terday morning being very fine, I took a 
walk for a quarter of an hour in the gar- 
den and was very much refresh'd by it. 
You must consider no news, good news — 
if you do not hear from me the day after 
to-morrow. 

Your affectionate Brother John. 

155. TO THE SAME 

Wentworth Place, Monday Morn. 
[February 14, 1820.] 
My dear Fanny — I am improving but 
very gradually and suspect it will be a long 
while before I shall be able to walk six 
miles — The Sun appears half inclined to 
shine ; if he obliges us I shall take a turn 
in the garden this morning. No one from 
Town has visited me since my last. I have 
had so many presents of jam and jellies 
that they would reach side by side the 
length of the sideboard. I hope I shall be 



well before it is all consumed. I am vexed 
that Mr. Abbey will not allow you pocket 
money sufficient. He has not behaved well 
— By detaining money from me and George 
when we most wanted it he has increased 
our expenses. In consequence of such de- 
lay George was obliged to take his voyage 
to England which will be £150 out of his 
pocket. I enclose you a note — Y'^ou shall 
hear from me again the day after to-morrow. 
Your affectionate Brother John. 

156. TO fanny BRAWNE 

My dearest Girl — According to all 
appearances I am to be separated from you 
as much as possible. How I shall be able 
to bear it, or whether it will not be worse 
than your presence now and then, I cannot 
tell. I must be patient, and in the mean 
time you must think of it as little as possi- 
ble. Let me not longer detain you from 
going to Town — there may be no end to 
this imprisoning of you. Perhaps you had 
better not come before tomorrow even- 
ing: send me however without fail a good 
night. 

You know our situation what hope 

is there if I should be recovered ever so 
soon — my very health will not suffer me 
to make any great exertion. I am recom- 
mended not even to read poetry, much less 
write it. I wish I had even a little hope. 
I cannot say forget me — but I would men- 
tion that there are impossibilities in the 
world. No more of this. I am not strong 
enough to be weaned — take no notice of it 
in your good night. 

Happen what may I shall ever be ray 
dearest Love 

Your affectionate J. K. 



157. TO THE SAME 

My dearest Girl — how could it ever 
have been my wish to forget you ? how 
could I have said such a thing ? The ut- 
most stretch my mind has been capable of 



426 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



was to endeavour to forget you for your 
own sake seeing what a chance there was 
of my remaining in a precarious state of 
health. I would have borne it as I would 
bear death if fate was in that humour : but 
I should as soon think of choosing to die as 
to part from you. Believe too my Love 
that our friends think and speak for the 
best, and if their best is not our best it is 
not their fault. When I am better I will 
speak with you at large on these subjects, 
if there is any occasion — I think there is 
none. I am rather nervous today jjerhaps 
from being a little recovered and suffering 
my mind to take little excursions beyond 
the doors and windows. I take it for a 
good sign, but as it must not be encouraged 
you had better delay seeing me till to- 
morrow. Do not take the trouble of writ- 
ing much : merely send me my good night. 
Remember me to your Mother and Mar- 
garet. 

Your affectionate J. K. 

158. TO THE SAME 

My dearest Fanny — Then all we 
have to do is to be patient. Whatever 
violence I may sometimes do myself by 
hinting at what would appear to any one 
but ourselves a matter of necessity, I do 
not think I could bear any approach of a 
thought of losing you. I slept well last 
night, but cannot say that I improve very 
fast. I shall expect you tomorrow, for it 
is certainly better that I should see you 
seldom. Let me have your good night. 
Your affectionate J. K. 

159. TO jambs rice 

Wentworth Place, February 16, 1820. 
My dear Rice — I have not been well 
enough to make any tolerable rejoinder to 
your kind letter. I will, as you advise, be 
very chary of my health and spirits. I am 
sorry to hear of your relapse and hypo- 
chondriac symptoms attending it. Let us 






hope for the best, as you say. I shall foU 
low your example in looking to the future 
good rather than brooding upon the presenW 
ill. I have not been so worn with length-S 
ened illnesses as you have, therefore can- 
not answer you on your own ground with 
respect to those haunting and deformed 
thoughts and feelings you speak of. When 
I have been, or supposed myself in health, 
I have had my share of them, especially 
within the last year. I may say, that for 
six mouths before I was taken ill I had 
not passed a tranquil day. Either thalf 
gloom overspread me, or I was suffering 
imder some passionate feeling, or if IM 
turned to versify, that acerbated the poison 
of either sensation. The beauties of nature 
had lost their power over me. How aston- 
ishingly (here I must premise that illness, 
as far as I can judge in so short a time, has 
relieved my mind of a load of deceptive 
thoughts and images, and makes me per^^ 
ceive things in a truer light), — how aston-* 
ishingly does the chance of leaving the 
world impress a sense of its natural beau- 
ties upon us ! Like poor Falstaff, though I 
do not ' babble,' I think of green fields ; I, 
muse with the greatest affection on everw 
flower I have known from my infancy — 
their shapes and colours are as new to me 
as if I had just created them with a super- 
human fancy. It is because they are con- 
nected with the most thoughtless and the 
happiest moments of our lives. I have 
seen foreign flowers in hothouses, of the 
most beautiful nature, but I do not care a 
straw for them. The simple flowers of our 
Spring are what I want to see again. 

Brown has left the inventive and taken 
to the imitative art. He is doing his forte, 
which is copying Hogarth's heads. He has 
just made a purchase of the Methodist 
Meeting picture, which gave me a horrid 
dream a few nights ago. I hope I shall sit 
under the trees with you again in some 
such place as the Isle of Wight. I do not 
mind a game of cards in a saw-pit or wag- 
gon, but if ever you catch me on a stage- 



TO FANNY BRAWNE 



427 



•oach in the winter full against the wind, 
pring me down with a brace of bullets, and 
I promise not to 'peach. Remember me to 
(Reynolds, and say how much I should like 
to hear from him ; that Brown returned 
mmediately after he went on Sunday, and 
hat I was vexed at forgetting to ask him 
lunch ; for as he went towards the gate, 
L saw he was fatigued and hungry. 

1 am, my dear Rice, ever most sincerely 
t ours 

John Keats. 
1 have broken this open to let you know 
[ was surprised at seeing it on the table 
his morning, thinking it had gone long 

igd. 



1(50. TO FANNY KEATS 

[February 19, 1820.] 
My dear Fanny — Being confined al- 
most entirely to vegetable food and the 
weather being at the same time so much 
against me, I cannot say I have much im- 
proved since I wrote last. The Doctor 
tells me there are no dangerous Symptoms 
about me, and quietness of mind and fine 
weather will restore me. Mind my advice 
to be very careful to wear warm cloathing 
in a thaw. I will write again on Tuesday 
when I hope to send you good news. 
Your affectionate Brother John . 



1()1. TO fanny brawn-e 

My dearest Fanny — I read your 
note in bed last night, and that might be 
the reason of my sleeping so much better. 
I think Mr. Brown is right in supposing 
you may stop too long with me, so very 
nervous as I am. Send me every evening 
a written Good night. If you come for a 
few minutes about six it may be the best 
time. Should you ever fancy me too low- 
spirited I must warn you to ascribe it to 
the medicine I am at present taking which 
is of a nerve-shaking nature. I shall im- 



pute any depression I may experience to 
this cause. I have been writing with a 
vile old pen the whole week, which is ex- 
cessively uugallant. The fault is in the 
Quill : I have mended it and still it is very 
much inelin'd to make blind es. However 
these last lines are in a much better style 
of penmanship, tho' a little disfigured by 
the smear of black currant jelly ; which has 
made a little mark on one of the pages of 
Brown's Ben Jonson, the very best book he 
has. I have lick'd it but it remains very 
purple. I did not know whether to say 
purple or blue so in the mixture of the 
thought wrote purplue which may be an 
excellent name for a colour made up of 
those two, and would suit well to start next 
spring. Be very careful of open doors and 
windows and going without your duffle 
grey. God bless you Love ! 

J. Keats. 
P. S. I am sitting in the back room. 
Remember me to your Mother. 

162. TO THE SAME 

My dear Fanny, — Do not let your 
mother suppose that you hurt me by writ- 
ing at night. For some" reason or other 
your last night's note was not so treasure- 
able as former ones. I would fain that you 
call me Love still. To see you happy and 
in high spirits is a great consolation to me 
— still let me believe that you are not half 
so happy as my restoration would make 
you. I am nervous, I own, and may think 
myself worse than I really am ; if so you 
must indulge me, and pamper with that 
sort of tenderness you have manifested to- 
wards me in different Letters. My sweet 
creature when I look back upon the pains 
and torments I have suffer'd for you from 
the day I left you to go to the Isle of 
Wight ; the ecstasies in which I have pass'd 
some days and the miseries in their turn, I 
wonder the more at the Beauty which has 
kept up the spell so fervently. When I 
send this round I shall be in the front par- 



428 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



lour watching to see you show yourself for 
a minute in the garden. How illness 
stands as a barrier betwixt me and you ! 
Even if I was well 1 must make my- 
self as good a Philosopher as possible. 
Now I have had opportunities of passing 
nights anxious and awake I have found 
other thoughts intrude upon me. 'If I 
should die,' said I to myself, ' I have left 
no immortal work behind me — nothing to 
make my friends proud of my memory — 
but I have lov'd the principle of beauty in 
all things, and if I had had time I would 
have made myself remember'd.' Thoughts 
like these came very feebly whilst I was in 
health and every pulse beat for you — now 
you divide with this (may / say it ?) * last 
infirmity of noble minds ' all my reflection. 
God bless you. Love. J. ICeats. 

163. TO THE SAME 

My dearest Girl, — You spoke of 
having been unwell in your last note : have 
you recover'd ? That note has been a 
great delight to me. I am stronger than 
I was : the Doctors say there is very little 
the matter with me, but I cannot believe 
them till the weight and tightness of my 
Chest is mitigated. I will not indulge or 
pain myself by complaining of my long 
separation from you. God alone knows 
whether I am destined to taste of happi- 
ness with you : at all events I myself know 
thus much, that I consider it no mean Hap- 
piness to have lov'd you thus far — if it is 
to be no further I shall not be unthankful 
— if I am to recover, the day of my re- 
covery shall see me by your side from 
which nothing shall separate me. If well 
you are the only medicine that can keep 
me so. Perhaps, aye surely, I am writing 
in too depress'd a state of mind. — ask your 
Mother to come and see me — she will 
bring you a better account than mine. 

Ever your affectionate John Keats. 



164. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 

[February 23 or 25, 1820,] 
My DEAR Reynolds — I have been im. 
proving since you saw me : my nights ar( 
better which I think is a very encour- 
aging thing. You mention your cold i: 
rather too slighting a manner — if you 
travel outside have som-e flannel against 
the wind — which I hope will not keep on 
at this rate when you are in the Packet 
boat. Should it rain do not stop upon 
deck though the Passengers should vomit 
themselves inside out. Keep under Hatches 
from all sort of wet. 

I am pretty well provided with Books at 
present, when you return I may give you a* 
commission or two. Mr. B[arry] C [orn wall] 
has sent me not only his Sicilian Story but; 
yesterday his Dramatic Scenes — this is 
very polite, and I shall do what I can to 
make him sensible I think so. I confess 
they teaze me — they are composed of 
amiability, the Seasons, the Leaves, the 
Moons, etc., upon which he rings (accord- 
ing to Hunt's expression), triple bob ma^^ 
jors. However that is nothing — I think 
he likes poetry for its own sake, not his. 
hope I shall soon be well enough to proceed 
with my faeries and set you about the notes 
on Sundays and Stray-days. If I had been 
well enough I should have liked to cross 
the water with you. Brown wishes you a 
pleasant voyage — Have fish for dinner at 
the sea ports, and don't forget a bottle of 
Claret. You will not meet with so much to 
hate at Brussels as at Paris. Remember me 
to all my friends. If I were well enough I 
would paraphrase an ode of Horace's for 
you, on your embarking in the seventy 
years ago style. The Packet will bear a 
comparison with a Roman galley at any 
rate. 

Ever yours affectionately 

J, Keats. 



? 



TO FANNY BRAWNE 



429 



165. TO FANNY BBAWNE 

My dearest Girl — Indeed I will not 
eceive you with respect to my Health, 
'his is the fact as far as I know. I have 
een confined three weeks and am not yet 
ell — this proves that there is something 
rong about me which my constitution will 
ither conquer or give way to. Let us 
ope for the best. Do you hear the Thrush 
inging over the field ? I think it is a 
gn of mild weather — so much the bet- 
jr for me. Like all Sinners now I am ill 

philosophize, aye out of my attachment 
) every thing, Trees, flowers, Thrushes, 
pring, Summer, Claret, &c. &c. — aye 
very thing but you. — My sister would be 
lad of my company a little longer. That 
'brush is a fine fellow. I hope he was 
artunate in his choice this year. Do not 
end any more of my Books home. I have 

great pleasure in the thought of you look- 
ig on them. 

Ever yours my sweet Fanny J. K. 

166. TO FANNY KEATS 

Wentworth Place, Thursday. 
[February 24, 1820.] 

I My dear Fanny — I am sorry to hear 
fou have been so unwell : now you are bet- 
er, keep so. Remember to be very care- 
ul of your clothing — this climate requires 
he utmost care. There has been very 
ittle alteration in me lately. I am much 
;he same as when I wrote last. When I 
im well enough to return to my old diet I 
shall get stronger. If my recovery should 
36 delay'd long I will ask Mr. Abbey to let 
you visit me — keep up your Spirits as well 
IS you can. You shall hear soon again 
from me. 
Your affectionate Brother John 



167. TO FANNY BRAWNE 

My dearest Fanny — I had a better 
night last night than I have had since my 



attack, and this morning I am the same as 
when you saw me. I have been turning 
over two volumes of Letters written be- 
tween Rousseau and two Ladies in the 
perplexed strain of mingled finesse and 
sentiment in which the Ladies and gentle- 
men of those days were so clever, and 
which is still prevalent among Ladies 
of this Country who live in a state of rea- 
soning romance. The likeness however 
only extends to the mannerism, not to the 
dexterity. What would Rousseau have 
said at seeing our little correspondence ! 
What would his Ladies have said ! I 
don't care much — I would sooner have 
Shakspeare's opinion about the matter. 
The common gossiping of washerwomen 
must be less disgusting than the continual 
and eternal fence and attack of Rousseau 
and these sublime Petticoats. One calls 
herself Clara and her friend Julia, two of 
Rosseau's heroines — they all the same 
time christen poor Jean Jacques St. Preux 
— who is the pure cavalier of his famous 
novel. Thank God I am born in England 
with our own great Men before my eyes. 
Thank God that you are fair and can love 
me without being Letter-written and senti- 
mentaliz'd into it. — Mr. Barry Cornwall 
has sent me another Book, his first, with a 
polite note. I must do what I can to make 
him sensible of the esteem I have for his 
kindness. If this north east would take a 
turn it would be so much the better for 
me. Good bye, my love, my dear love, 
my beauty — 

love me for ever J. K. 

168. TO THE same 

My dearest Girl — I continue much 
the same as usual, I think a little better. 
My spirits are better also, and consequently 
I am more resign'd to my confinement, I 
dare not think of you much or write much 
to you. Remember me to all. 

Ever your affectionate 

John Keats. 



43° 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



169. TO THK SAME 

My dear Fanny — I think you had bet- 
ter not make any long stay with me when 
Mr. Brown is at home. Whenever he goes 
out you may bring your work. You will 
have a pleasant walk today. I shall see you 
pass. I shall follow you with my eyes over 
the Heath. Will you come towards even- 
ing instead of before dinner ? When you 
are gone, 't is past — if you do not come 
till the evening I have something to look 
forward to all day. Come round to my 
window for a moment when you have read 
this. Thank your Mother, for the pre- 
serves, for me. The raspberry will be too 
sweet not having any acid ; therefore as 
you are so good a girl I shall make you a 
present of it. Good bye 

My sweet Love ! J. Keats. 



170. TO THE SAME 

My deabest Fanny — The power of 
your benediction is of not so weak a nature 
as to pass from the ring in four and twenty 
hours — it is like a sacred Chalice once con- 
secrated and ever consecrate. I shall kiss 
your name and mine where your Lips have 
been — Lips ! why should a poor prisoner 
as I am talk about such things ? Thank 
God, though I hold them the dearest plea- 
sures in the universe, I have a consolation 
independent of them in the certainty of 
your affection. I could write a song in 
the style of Tom Moore's Pathetic about 
Memory if that would be any relief to me. 
No — 'twould not. I will be as obstinate 
as a Robin, I will not sing in a cage. 
Health is my expected heaven and you are 

the Houri this word I believe is both 

singular and plural — if only plural, never 
mind — you are a thousand of them. 

Ever yours affectionately my dearest, 

J. K. 

You had better not come to day. 



171. TO THE SAME 

My deakest Love — You must not stop 
so long in the cold — I have been suspect- 
ing that window to be open. — Your note 
half-cured me. When I want some more 
oranges I will tell you — these are just 
h propos. I am kept from food so feel 
rather weak — otherwise very well. Pray 
do not stop so long upstairs — it makes me 
uneasy — come every now and then and 
stop a half minute. Remember me to 
Your Mother. 

Your ever affectionate J. Keats. 



172. TO THE SAME 

Sweetest Fanny — You fear, some 
times, I do not love you so much as yoi 
wish ? My dear Girl I love you ever am 
ever and without reserve. The more 
have known the more have I lov'd. Ii 
every way — even my jealousies have been' 
agonies of Love, in the hottest fit I ever 
had I would have died for you. I have 
vex'd you too much. But for Love ! Can 
I help it ? You are always new. The last 
of your kisses was ever the sweetest ; the 
last smile the brightest ; the last move- 
ment the gracefullest. When you pass'd 
my window home yesterday, I was fiU'd 
with as much admiration as if I had then 
seen you for the first time. You uttered a 
half complaint once that I only lov'd your 
beauty. Have I nothing else then to love 
in you but that ? Do not I see a heart 
naturally furnish'd with wings imprison it- 
self with me ? No ill prospect has been able 
to turn your thoughts a moment from me. 
This perhaps should be as much a subject 
of sorrow as joy — but I will not talk of 
that. Even if you did not love me I could 
not help an entire devotion to you : how 
much more deeply then must I feel for 
you knowing yon love me. My Mind has 
been the most discontented and restless one 



TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE 



431 



hat ever was put into a body too small for 
t. I never felt my Mind repose upon any- 
thing with complete and undistracted en- 
joyment — upon no person but you. When 
fon are in the room my thoughts never fly 
jut of window: you always concentrate 
fiiy whole senses. The anxiety shown about 
)ur Loves in your last note is an immense 
j)leasure to me : however you must not 
suffer such speculations to molest you any 
nore : nor will I any more believe you can 
lave the least pique against me. Brown is 
jone out — but here is Mrs. Wiley — when 
ihe is gone I shall be awake for you. — 
[Remembrances to your Mother. 
Your affectionate J. Keats. 



173. TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE 

[Hampstead, March 4, 1820,] 

My dear Dilke — Since I saw you I 
lave been gradually, too gradually perhaps, 
mproving ; and though under an interdict 
ivith respect to animal food, living upon 
c»seudo victuals, Brown says I have pick'd 
ip a little flesh lately. If I can keep off 
nflammation for the next six weeks I 
trust I shall do very well. You certainly 
hould have been at Martin's dinner, for 
making an index is surely as dull work 
as engraving. Have you heard that the 
Bookseller is going to tie himself to the 
manger eat or not as he pleases. He 
says Rice shall have his foot on the 
fender notwithstanding. Reynolds is go- 
ing to sail on the salt seas. Brown has 
been mightily progressing with his Ho- 
jgarth. A damn'd melancholy picture it 
;is, and during the first week of my illness 
it gave me a psalm-singing nightmare, that 
made me almost faint away in my sleep. I 
know I am better, for I can bear the Pic- 
ture. I have experienced a specimen of 
great politeness from Mr. Barry Cornwall. 
He has sent me his books. Some time ago 
he had given his first publish'd book to 



Hunt for me ; Hunt forgot to give it and 
Barry Cornwall thinking I had received it 
must have thought me a very neglectful 
fellow. Notwithstanding he sent me his 
second book and on my explaining that I 
had not received his first he sent me that 
also. I am sorry to see by Mrs. D.'s note 
that she has been so unwell with the spasms. 
Does she continue the Medicines that bene- 
fited her so much ? I am afraid not. 
Remember me to her, and say I shall not 
expect her at Hampstead next week unless 
the Weather changes for the warmer. It 
is better to run no chance of a supernumer- 
ary cold in March. As for you, you must 
come. You must improve in your penman- 
ship ; your writing is like the speaking 
of a child of three years old, very under- 
standable to its father but to no one else. 
The worst is it looks well — no, that is not 
the worst — the worst is, it is worse than 
Bailey's. Bailey's looks illegible and may 
perchance be read ; yours looks very legi- 
ble and may perchance not be read. I 
would endeavour to give you a facsim- 
ile of your word Thistlewood if I were 
not minded on the instant that Lord Ches- 
terfield has done some such thing to his son. 
Now I would not bathe in the same River 
with Lord C. though I had the upper hand 
of the stream. I am grieved that in writ- 
ing and speaking it is necessary to make 
use of the same particles as he did. Cob- 
bett is expected to come in. O that I had 
two double plumpers for him. The minis- 
try are not so inimical to him but it would 
like to put him out of Coventry. Casting 
my eye on the other side I see a long word 
written in a most vile manner, unbecoming 
a Critic. You must recollect I have served 
no apprenticeship to old plays. If the only 
copies of the Greek and Latin authors had 
been made by you, Bailey and Haydon they 
were as good as lost. It has been said that 
the Character of a Man may be known by 
his handwTiting — if the Character of the 
age may be known by the average good- 



432 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



ness of said, what a slovenly age we live in. 
Look at Queen Elizabeth's Latin exercises 
and blush. Look at Milton's hand. I 
can't say a word for Shakspeare's. 

Your sincere friend John Keats. 



174. TO FANNY BRAWNE 

My dear Fanny — I am much better 
this morning than I was a week ago : in- 
deed I improve a little every day. I rely 
upon taking a walk with you upon the first 
of May : in the mean time undergoing a 
babylonish captivity I shall not be jew 
enough to hang up my harp upon a willow, 
but rather endeavour to clear up my ar- 
rears in versifying, and with returning 
health begin upon something new: pursu- 
ant to which resolution it will be necessary 
to have my or rather Taylor's manuscript, 
which you, if you please, will send by my 
Messenger either today or tomorrow. Is 
Mr. D. with you today? You appeared 
very much fatigued last night : you must 
look a little brighter this morning. I shall 
not suffer my little girl ever to be obscured 
like glass breath'd upon, but always bright 
as it is her nature to. Feeding upon sham 
victuals and sitting by the fire will com- 
pletely annul me. I have no need of an 
enchanted wax figure to duplicate me, for 
I am melting in my proper person before 
the fire. If you meet with anything better 
(worse) than common in your Magazines 
let me see it. 

Good bye my sweetest Girl. J. K. 

175. TO THE SAME 

My dearest Fanny — Whenever you 
know me to be alone, come, no matter what 
day. Why will you go out this weather ? 
I shall not fatigue myself with writing too 
much I promise you. Brown says I am 
getting stouter. I rest well and from last 
night do not remember any thing horrid in 
my dream, which is a capital symptom, for 



any organic derangement always occasions 
a Phantasmagoria. It will be a nice idlaA. 
amusement to hunt after a motto for my^ 
Book which I will have if lucky enough to 
hit upon a fit one — not intending to write 
a preface. I fear I am too late with my 
note — you are gone out — you will be as 
cold as a topsail in a north latitude — I ad- 
vise you to furl yourself and come in a 
doors. 

Good bye Love. J. K. 



176. TO THE SAME 

My dearest Fanny — I slept well last 
night and am no worse tl^is morning for it. 
Day by day if I am not deceived I get a 
more unrestrain'd use of my Chest. The 
nearer a racer gets to the Goal the more his 
anxiety becomes; so I lingering upon the 
borders of health feel my impatience in- 
crease. Perhaps on your account I have 
imagined my illness more serious than it is: 
how horrid was the chance of slipping into 
the ground instead of into your arms — the 
difference is amazing Love. Death must 
come at last; Man must die, as Shallow 
says; but before that is my fate I fain 
would try what more pleasures than you 
have given, so sweet a creature as you can 
give. Let me have another opportunity of 
years before me and I will not die without 
being remember'd. Take care of yourself 
dear that we may both be well in the Sum- 
mer. I do not at all fatigue myself with 
writing, having merely to put a line or two i 
here and there, a Task which would worry! 
a stout state of the body and mind, but 
which just suits me as I can do no more. 
Your affectionate J. K. 



177. TO THE SAME 

My dearest Fanny — Though I shall 
see you in so short a time I cannot forbear 
sending you a few lines. You say I did 



TO FANNY BRAWNE 



433 



' not give you yesterday a minute account of 
my health. Today I have left off the 
Medicine which I took to keep the pulse 
down and I find I can do very well without 
it, which is a very favourable sign, as it 
shows there is no inflammation remaining. 
You think I may be wearied at night you 
say: it is my best time; I am at my best 
about eight o'Clock. I received a Note 
from Mr. Procter today. He says he can- 
not pay me a visit this weather as he is 
fearful of an inflammation in the Chest. 
What a horrid climate this is? or what 
careless inhabitants it has ? You are one 
of them. My dear girl do not make a joke 
of it: do not expose yourself to the cold. 
There's the Thrush again — I can't afford 
it — he '11 run me up a pretty Bill for 
Music — besides he ought to know I deal 
at dementi's. How can you bear so long 
an imprisonment at Hampstead ? I shall 
always remember it with all the gusto that 
a monopolizing carle should. I could build 
an Altar to you for it. 

Your affectionate 

J. K. 



178. TO FANNY KEATS 

[March 20, 1820.] 
My dear Fanny — According to your 
desire I write to-day. It must be but a 
few lines, for I have been attack'd several 
times with a palpitation at the heart and 
the Doctor says I must not make the 
slightest exertion. I am much the same 
to-day as I have been for a week past. They 
say 't is nothing but debility and will entirely 
cease on my recovery of my strength which 
is the object of my present diet. As the 
Doctor will not suffer me to write I shall 
ask Mr. Brown to let you hear news of me 
for the future if I should not get stronger 
soon. I hope I shall be well enough to 
come and see your flowers in bloom. 
Ever your most affectionate Brother 
John . 



179. TO fanny BRAWNE 

My dearest Girl — As, from the last 
part of my note you must see how gratified 
I have been by your remaining at home, 
you might perhaps conceive that I was 
equally bias'd the other way by your going 
to Town, I cannot be easy to-night without 
telling you you would be wrong to suppose 
so. Though I am pleased with the one, I 
am not displeased with the other. How 
do I dare to write in this manner about my 
pleasures and displeasures ? I will tho' 
whilst I am an invalid, in spite of you. 
Good night, Love ! J. K. 



180. TO THE SAME 

My dearest Girl — In consequence of 
our company I suppose I shall not see you 
before tomorrow. I am much better to- 
day — indeed all I have to complain of is 
want of strength and a little tightness in 
the Chest. I envied Sara's walk with you 
today; which I will not do again as I may 
get very tired of envying. I imagine you 
now sitting in your new black dress which 
I like so much and if I were a little less 
selfish and more enthusiastic I should run 
round and surprise you with a knock at 
the door. I fear I am too prudent for a 
dying kind of Lover. Yet, there is a great 
difference between going off in warm blood 
like Romeo, and making one's exit like a 
frog in a frost. I had nothing particular 
to say today, but not intending that there 
shall be any interruption to our correspond- 
ence (which at some future time I propose 
offering to Murray) I write something. 
God bless you my sweet Love ! Illness is 
a long lane, but I see you at the end of it, 
and shall mend my pace as well as pos- 
sible. J. K. 

181. TO THE SAME 

Dear Girl — Yesterday you must have 
thought me worse than I really was. I 



434 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



assure you there was nothing but regret at 
being obliged to forego an embrace which 
has so many times been the highest gust of 
my Life. I would not care for health with- 
out it. Sam would not come in — I wanted 
merely to ask him how you were this morn- 
ing. When one is not quite well we turn 
for relief to those we love : this is no weak- 
ness of spirit in me: you know when in 
health I thought of nothing but you; when 
I shall again be so it will be the same. 
Brown has been mentioning to me that 
some hint from Sam, last night, occasions 
him some uneasiness. He whispered some- 
thing to you concerning Brown and old 
Mr. Dilke which had the complexion of 
being something derogatory, to the former. 
It was connected with an anxiety about 
Mr. D. Sr's death and an anxiety to set out 
for Chichester. These sort of hints point 
out their own solution: one cannot pretend 
to a delicate ignorance on the subject: you 
understand the whole matter. If any one, 
my sweet Love, has misrepresented, to you, 
to your Mother or Sam, any circumstances 
which are at all likely, at a tenth remove, to 
create suspicions among people who from 
their own interested notions slander others, 
pray tell me : for I feel the least attaint on 
the disinterested character of Brown verj' 
deeply. Perhaps Keynolds or some other 
of my friends may come towards evening, 
therefore you may choose whether you will 
come to see me early today before or after 
dinner as you may think fit. Remember 
me to your Mother and tell her to drag 
you to me if you show the least reluc- 
tance — 



182. TO FANNY KEATS 

Wentworth Place, April 1 [1820]. 

My dear Fanny — I am getting better 

every day and should think myself quite 

well were I not reminded every now and 

then by faintness and a tightness in the 



Chest. Send your Spaniel over to Hamp- 
stead, for I think I know where to find a 
Master or Mistress for him. You may de- 
pend upon it if you were even to turn it 
loose in the common road it would soon 
find an owner. If I keep improving as I 
have done I shall be able to come over to 
you in the course of a few weeks. I should 
take the advantage of your being in Town 
but I cannot bear the City though I have 
already ventured as far as the west end for 
the purpose of seeing Mr. Haydon's Pic- 
ture, which is just finished and has made 
its appearance. I have not heard from 
George yet since he left Liverpool. Mr. 
Brown wrote to him as from me the other 
day — Mr. B. wrote two Letters to Mr. 
Abbey concerning me — Mr. A. took no 
notice and of course Mr. B. must give up 
such a correspondence when as the man 
said all the Letters are on one side. I 
write with greater ease than I had thought, 
therefore you shall soon hear from me 
again. 

Your affectionate Brother John . 



183. TO THE SAME ' 

[April 1820.] 
My DEAR Fanny — Mr. Brown is wait- 
ing for me to take a walk. Mrs. Dilke is 
on a visit next door and desires her love to 
you. The Dog shall be taken care of and 
for his name I shall go and look in the 
parish register where he was born — I still 
continue on the mending hand. 

Your affectionate Brother John . 



184. TO THE SAME 

Wentworth Place, April 12, [1820]. 
My DEAR Fanny — Excuse these shabby 
scraps of paper I send you — and also from i 
endeavouring to give you any consolation: 
just at present, for though my health ist 
tolerably well I am too nervous to enten 
into any discussion in which my heart is 



TO FANNY KEATS 



43 S 



concerned. Wait patiently and take care 
of your health, being especially careful to 
keep yourself from low spirits which are 
great enemies to health. You are young 
and have only need of a little patience. 
I am not yet able to bear the fatigue of 
coming to Walthamstow, though I have 
been to Town once or twice. I have 
thought of taking a change of air. You 
shall hear from me immediately on my 
moving anywhere. I will ask Mrs. Dilke 
to pay you a visit if the weather holds fine, 
the first time I see her. The Dog is being 
attended to like a Prince. 

Your affectionate Brother John. 



185. TO THE SAME 

[Hampstead, April 21, 1820.] 
My dear Fanny — I have been slowly 
improving since I wrote last. The Doctor 
assures me that there is nothing the matter 
with me except nervous irritability and a 
general weakness of the whole system, 
which has proceeded from my anxiety of 
mind of late years and the too great excite- 
ment of poetry. Mr. Brown is going to 
Scotland by the Smack, and I am advised 
for change of exercise and air to accompany 
him and give myself the chance of benefit 
from a Voyage. Mr. H. Wylie call'd on 
me yesterday with a letter from George to 
his mother : George is safe at the other 
side of the water, perhaps by this time ar- 
rived at his home. I vnsh you were com- 
ing to town that I might see you ; if you 
should be coming write to me, as it is quite 
a trouble to get by the coaches to Waltham- 
stow. Should you not come to Town I 
must see you before I sail, at Walthamstow. 
They tell me I must study lines and tan- 
gents and squares and angles to put a little 
Ballast into my mind. We shall be going 
in a fortnight and therefore you will see 
me vrithin that space. I expected sooner, 
but I have not been able to venture to walk 
across the country. Now the fine Weather 



is come you will not find your time so irk- 
some. You must be sensible how much I 
regret not being able to alleviate the un- 
pleasantness of your situation, but trust my 
dear Fanny that better times are in wait 
for you. 

Your affectionate Brother John . 



186. TO THE SAME 

Wentworth Place, Thursday [May 4, 1820]. 
My dear Fanny — I went for the first 
time into the City the day before yesterday, 
for before I was very disinclined to en- 
counter the scuffle, more from nervousness 
than real illness ; which notwithstanding I 
should not have suffered to conquer me if 
I had not made up my mind not to go to 
Scotland, but to remove to Kentish Town 
till Mr. Brown returns. Kentish Town is 
a mile nearer to you than Hampstead — 
I have been getting gradually better, but 
am not so well as to trust myself to the 
casualties of rain and sleeping out which I 
am liable to in visiting you. Mr. Bro%vn 
goes on Saturday, and by that time I shall 
have settled in my new lodging, when I 
will certainly venture to you. You will 
forgive me I hope when I confess that I en- 
deavour to think of you as little as possible 
and to let George dwell upon my mind but 
slightly. The reason being that I am 
afraid to ruminate on anything which has 
the shade of difficulty or melancholy in it, 
as that sort of cogitation is so pernicious to 
health, and it is only by health that I can be 
enabled to alleviate your situation in future. 
For some time you must do what you can 
of yourself for relief ; and bear your mind 
up with the consciousness that your situa- 
tion cannot last for ever, and that for the 
present you may console yourself against 
the reproaches of Mrs. Abbey. Whatever 
obligations you may have had to her you 
have none now, as she has reproached you. 
I do not know what property you have, but 
I will enquire into it : be sure however that 



436 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



beyond the obligation that a lodger may 
have to a landlord you have none to Mrs. 
Abbey. Let the surety of this make you 
laugh at Mrs. A.'s foolish tattle. Mrs. 
Dilke's Brother has got your Dog. She is 
now very well — still liable to Illness. I 
will get her to come and see you if I can 
make up my mind on the propriety of in- 
troducing a stranger into Abbey's house. 
Be careful to let no fretting injure your 
health as I have suffered it — health is the 
greatest of blessings — with health and 
hope we should be content to live, and so 
you will find as you grow older. 

I am, my dear Fanny, your affectionate 
Brother, John . 



187. TO CHARLES WENTWOBTH DILKE 

[Hampstead, May 1820.] 
My dear Dilke — As Brown is not to 
be a fixture at Hampstead, I have at last 
made up my mind to send home all lent 
books. I should have seen you before this, 
but my mind has been at work all over the 
world to find out what to do. I have my 
choice of three things, or at least two, — 
South America, or Surgeon to an India- 
man ; which last, I think, will be my fate. 
I shall resolve in a few days. Remember 
me to Mrs. D. and Charles, and your father 
and mother. 

Ever truly yours John Keats. 



188. TO FANNY BRAWNE 

My dearest Girl — I endeavour to 
make myself as patient as possible. Hunt 
amuses me very kindly — besides I have 
your ring on my finger and your flowers 
on the table. I shall not expect to see you 
yet because it would be so much pain to 
part with you again. When the Books you 
want come you shall have them. I am 
very well this afternoon. My dearest. . . . 
[Signature cut off.] 



189. TO THE SAME 

Tuesday Afternoon. 

My dearest Fanny — For this Week 
past I have been employed in marking the 
most beautiful passages in Spenser, intend- 
ing it for you, and comforting myself in 
being somehow occupied to give you how- 
ever small a pleasure. It has lightened 
my time very much. I am much better. 
God bless you. 

Your affectionate J. Keats. 



190. TO THE SAME 

Tuesday Morn. 
My dearest Girl — I wrote a letter for 
you yesterday expecting to have seen your 
mother. I shall be selfish enough to send 
it though I know it may give you a little 
pain, because I wish you to see hov^ un- 
happy I am for love of you, and endeavour 
as much as I can to entice you to give 'up 
your whole heart to me whose whole exist- 
ence hangs upon you. You could not step 
or move an eyelid but it would shoot to 
my heart — I am greedy of you. Do not 
think of anything but me. Do not live as 
if I was not existing. Do not forget me — 
But have I any right to say you forget 
me ? Perhaps you think of me all day. 
Have I any right to wish you to be un- 
happy for me ? You would forgive me for 
wishing it if you knew the extreme passion 
I have that you should love me — and for 
you to love me as I do you, you must think 
of no one but me, much less write that 
sentence. Yesterday and this morning I 
have been haunted with a sweet vision — I 
have seen you the whole time in your 
shepherdess dress. How my senses have 
ached at it ! How my heart has been 
devoted to it ! How my eyes have been 
full of tears at it ! I[n]deed I think a real 
love is enough to occupy the widest heart. 
Your going to town alone when I heard of 
it was a shock to me — yet I expected it -^ ; 



TO CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN 



437 



promise me you will not for some time till I get 
better. Promise me this and fill the paper 
full of the most endeariug names. If you 
cannot do so with good will, do my love tell 
me — say what you think — confess if your 
heart is too much fasten'd on the world. 
Perhaps then I may see you at a greater 
distance, I may not be able to appropriate 
you so closely to myself. Were you to 
loose a favourite bird from the cage, how 
would your eyes ache after it as long as it 
was in sight ; when out of sight you would 
recover a little. Perhaps if you would, if 
so it is, confess to me how many things are 
necessary to you besides me, I might be 
happier ; by being less tantaliz'd. Well 
may you exclaim, how selfish, how cruel 
not to let me enjoy my youth ! to wish me 
to be unhappy. You must be so if you 
love me. Upon my soul I can be contented 
with nothing else. If you would really 
what is call'd enjoy yourself at a Party — 
if you can smile in people's faces, and wish 
them to admire you noio — you never have 
nor ever will love me. I see life in no- 
thing but the certainty of your Love — con- 
vince me of it my sweetest. If I am not 
somehow convinced I shall die of agony. 
If we love we must not live as other men 
and women do — I cannot brook the wolfs- 
bane of fashion and foppery and tattle — 
you must be mine to die upon the rack if 
I want you. I do not pretend to say that I 
have more feeling than my fellows, but I 
wish you seriously to look over my letters 
kind and unkind and consider whether the 
person who wrote them can be able to en- 
dure much longer the agonies and uncer- 
tainties which you are so peculiarly made 
to create. My recovery of bodily health 
will be of no benefit to me if you are not 
mine when I am well. For God's sake 
save me — or tell me my passion is of too 
awful a nature for you. Again God bless 
you. 

J. K. 
No — my sweet Fanny — I am wrong — I 
do not wish you to be unhappy — and yet I 



do, I must while there is so sweet a Beauty 
— my loveliest, my darling ! good bye ! I 
kiss you — O the torments ! 

191. TO JOHN TAYLOR 

[Wesleyan Place, Kentish Town] 
June 11, [1820.] 
My dear Taylor — In reading over 
the proof of St. Aguess Eve since I left 
Fleet Street, I was struck with what ap- 
pears to me an alteration in the seventh 
stanza very much for the worse. The pas- 
sage I mean stands thus — 

her maiden eyes incline 
Still on the floor, while many a sweeping train 
Pass by 

'T was originally written — 

her maiden eyes divine 
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
Pass by. 

My meaning is quite destroyed in the alter- 
ation. I do not use train for concourse of 
passers by, but for skirts sweeping along 
the floor. 

In the first stanza my copy reads, second 
line — 

bitter chill it was, 

to avoid the echo cold in the second line. 
Ever yours sincerely John Keats. 

192. TO CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN 

[Wesleyan Place, Kentish Town, June, 1820.] 
My dear Brown — I have only been to 

's once since you left, when could 

not find your letters. Now this is bad of 
me. I should, in this instance, conquer the. 
great aversion to breaking up my regular 
habits, which grows upon me more and 
more. True, I have an excuse in the 
weather, which drives one from shelter to 
shelter in any little excursion. I have 
not heard from George. My book is com- 
ing out with very low hopes, though not 
spirits, on my part. This shall be my last 



438 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



trial ; not succeeding, I shall try what I can 
do in the apothecary line. When you hear 

from or see it is probable you will 

hear some complaints against me, which 
this notice is not intended to forestall. 
The fact is, I did behave badly ; but it is 
to be attributed to my health, spirits, and 
the disadvantageous ground I stand on in 
society. I could go and accommodate mat- 
ters if I were not too weary of the world. 
I know that they are more happy and com- 
fortable than I am ; therefore why should 
I trouble myself about it? I foresee I 
shall know very few people in the course 
of a year or two. Men get such different 
habits that they become as oil and vinegar 
to one another. Thus far I have a con- 
sciousness of having been pretty dull and 
heavy, both in subject and phrase; I might 
add, enigmatical. I am in the wrong, and 
the world is in the right, I have no doubt. 
Fact is, I have had so many kindnesses 
done me by so many people, that I am 
cheveaux-de-frised with benefits, which I 
must jump over or break down. I met 

in town, a few days ago, who invited 

me to supper to meet Wordsworth, Southey, 
Lamb, Haydon, and some more ; I was too 
careful of my health to risk being out at 
night. Talking of that, I continue to im- 
prove slowly, but I think surely. There is 
a famous exhibition in Pail-Mall of the old 
English portraits by Vandyck and Holbein, 
Sir Peter Lely, and the great Sir Godfrey. 
Pleasant countenances predominate ; so I 
will mention two or three unpleasant ones. 
There is James the First, whose appearance 
would disgrace a ' Society for the Sup- 
pression of Women ; ' so very squalid and 
subdued to nothing he looks. Then, there 
is old Lord Burleigh, the high-priest of 
economy, the political save-all, who has the 
appearance of a Pharisee just rebuffed by 
a Gospel bon-mot. Then, there is George 
the Second, very like an uuintellectual 
Voltaire, troubled with the gout and a bad 
temper. Then, there is young Devereux, 
the favourite, with every appearance of as 



slang a boxer as any in the Court ; his 
face is cast in the mould of blackguardism 
with jockey-plaster. I shall soon begin 
upon ' Lucy Vaughan Lloyd.' ^^ I do not 
begin composition yet, being willing, in 
case of a relapse, to have nothing to re- 
proach myself with. I hope the weather 
will give you the slip ; let it show itself and 
steal out of your company. When I have 
sent off this, I shall write another to some 
place about fifty miles in advance of you. 
Good morning to you. Yours ever sin- 
cerely. John Keats. 

193. TO FANNY KEATS 

Friday Morn [Wesleyan Place, 
Kentish Town, June 26, 1820.] 

My dear Fanny — I had intended to 
delay seeing you till a Book which I am 
now publishing was out, expecting that to 
be the end of this week when I would have 
brought it to Walthamstow : on receiving 
your Letter of course I set myself to come 
to town, but was not able, for just as I was 
setting out yesterday morning a slight 
spitting of blood came on which returned « 
rather more copiously at night. I have i 
slept well and they tell me there is nothing 
material to fear. I will send my Book 
soon with a Letter which I have had from 
George who is with his family quite well 

Your affectionate Brother John . 



194. TO FANNY BRAWNB 



I 



Wednesday Morning. 
My dearest Fanny — I have been a 
walk this morning with a book in my hand, 
but as usual I have been occupied with 
nothing but you : I wish I could say in an 
agreeable manner. I am tormented day 
and night. They talk of my going to Italy- 
'T is certain I shall never recover if I am 
to be so long separate from you : yet with 
all this devotion to you I cannot persuade 
myself into any confidence of you. Past 



TO FANNY KEATS 



439 



experience connected with the fact of my 
long separation from you gives me agonies 
which are scarcely to be talked of. When 
your mother comes I shall be very sudden 
and expert in asking her whether you have 
been to Mrs. Dilke's, for she might say no 
to make me easy. I am literally worn to 
death, which seems my only recourse. I 
cannot forget what has pass'd. What ? 
nothing with a man of the world, but to 
me deathful. I will get rid of this as much 
as possible. When you were in the habit 
of flirting with Brown you would have left 
off, could your own heart have felt one 
half of one pang mine did. Brown is a 
good sort of Man — he did not know he 
was doing me to death by inches. I feel 
the effect of every one of those hours in 
my side now ; and for that cause, though 
he has done me many services, though I 
know his love and friendship for me, though 
at this moment I should be without pence 
were it not for his assistance, I will never 
see or speak to him until we are both old 
men, if we are to be. I will resent my 
heart having been made a football. You 
will call this madness. I have heard you 
say that it was not unpleasant to wait a 
few years — you have amusements — your 
mind is away — you have not brooded over 
one idea as I have, and how should you ? 
You are to me an object intensely desira- 
ble — the air I breathe in a room empty of 
you is unhealthy. I am not the same to 
you — no — you can wait — you have a 
thousand activities — you can be happy 
without me. Any party, any thing to fill 
up the day has been enough. How have 
you pass'd this month ? Who have you 
smil'd with ? All this may seem savage 
in me. You do not feel as I do — you do 
not know what it is to love — one day you 
may — your time is not come. Ask your- 
self how many unhappy hours Keats has 
caused you in Loneliness. For myself I 
have been a Martyr the whole time, and 
for this reason I speak ; the confession is 
forc'd from me by the torture. I appeal 



to you by the blood of that Christ you be- 
lieve in : Do not write to me if you have 
done anything this month which it would 
have pained me to have seen. You may 
have altered — if you have not — if you 
still behave in dancing rooms and other 
societies as I have seen you — I do not 
want to live — if you have done so I wish 
this coming night may be my last. I can- 
not live without you, and not only you but 
chaste you; virtuous you. The Sun rises 
and sets, the day passes, and you follow 
the bent of your inclination to a certain 
extent — you have no conception of the 
quantity of miserable feeling that passes 
through me in a day. — Be serious i Love 
is not a plaything — and again do not 
write unless you can do it with a crystal 
conscience. I would sooner die for want 
of you than — 

Yours for ever 

J. Keats. 

105. TO FANNY KEATS 

Mortimer Terrace, Wednesday [July 5, 1820]. 
My DEAR Fanny — I have had no re- 
turn of the spitting of blood, and for two 
or three days have been getting a little 
stronger. I have no hopes of an entire 
reestablishment of my health under some 
months of patience. My Physician tells 
me I must contrive to jjass the Winter in 
Italy. This is all very unfortunate for us 
— we have no recourse but patience, which 
I am now practising better than ever I 
thought it possible for me. I have this 
moment received a Letter from Mr. Brown, 
dated Dunvegan Castle, Island of Skye. 
lie is very well in health and spirits. My 
new publication has been out for some days 
and I have directed a Copy to be bound 
for you, which you will receive shortly. 
No one can regret Mr. Hodgkinson's ill 
fortune : I must own illness has not made 
such a Saint of me as to prevent my re- 
joicing at his reverse. Keep yourself in as 
good hopes as possible ; in case my illness 



440 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



« 



should contiuue an unreasonable time many 
of my friends would I trust for my sake do 
all in their power to console and amuse 
you, at the least word from me — You may 
depend upon it that in case my strength 
returns I will do all in my power to extri- 
cate you from the Abbeys. Be above all 
things careful of your health which is the 
corner stone of ail pleasure. 

Your affectionate Brother John . 



196, TO BENJAMIN ROBEKT HAYDON 

[Mortimer Terrace, July, 1820,] 
My dear Haydon — I am sorry to be 
obliged to try your patience a few more 
days when you will have the Book [Chap- 
man's Horner^ sent from Town, I am glad 
to hear you are in progress with another 
Picture. Go on. I am afraid I shall pop 
off just when my mind is able to run alone. 
Your sincere friend 

John Keats. 

197. TO FANNY KEATS 

Mortuner Terrace [July 22, 1820.] 
My dear Fanny — I have been gain- 
ing strength for some days : it would be 
well if I could at the same time say I am 
gaining hopes of a speedy recovery. My 
constitution has suffered very much for two 
or three years past, so as to be scarcely 
able to make head against illness, which 
the natural activity and impatience of my 
Mind renders more dangerous. It will at 
all events be a very tedious affair, and you 
must expect to hear very little alteration of 
any sort in me for some time. You ought 
to have received a copy of my Book ten 
days ago. I shall send another message to 
the Booksellers. One of the Mr. Wylie's 
will be here to-day or to-morrow when I 
will ask him to send you George's Letter. 
Writing the smallest note is so annoying 
to me that I have waited till I shall see 
him. Mr. Hunt does everything in his 



power to make the time pass as agreeably 
with me as possible. I read the greatest 
part of the day, and generally take two 
half-hour walks a-day up and down the 
terrace which is very much pester'd with 
cries, ballad singers, and street music. We 
have been so unfortunate for so long a time, 
every event has been of so depressing a 
nature that I must persuade myself to 
think some change will take place in the 
aspect of our affairs. I shall be upon the 
look out for a trump card. 

Your affectionate Brother 

John . 



198. TO FANNY BRAWNE 

My dearest Fanny — My head is puz- 
zled this morning, and I scarce know what 
I shall say though I am full of a hundred 
things. 'Tis certain I would rather be 
writing to you this morning, notwithstand- 
ing the alloy of grief in such an occupation, 
than enjoy any other pleasure, with health 
to boot, unconnected with you. Upon my 
soul I have loved you to the extreme. I 
wish you could know the Tenderness with 
which I continually brood over your differ- 
ent aspects of countenance, action and dress. 
I see you come down in the morning : I see 
you meet me at the Window — I see every 
thing over again eternally that I ever have 
seen. If I get on the pleasant clue I live 
in a sort of happy misery, if on the un- 
pleasant 't is miserable misery. You com- 
plain of my illtreating you in word, thought 
and deed — I am sorry, — at times I feel 
bitterly sorry that I ever made you un- 
happy — my excuse is that those words 
have been wrung from me by the sharp- 
ness of my feelings. At all events and 
in any case I have been wrong ; could I 
believe that I did it without any cause, I 
should be the most sincere of Penitents. 
I could give way to my repentant feelings 
now, I could recant all my suspicions, I 
could mingle with you heart and Soul 



TO FANNY BRAWNE 



441 



hough absent, were it not for some parts 
it your Letters. Do you suppose it possi- 
ble I could ever leave you ? You know 
What I think of myself and what of you. 
You know that I should feel how much it 
was my loss and how little yours. My 
triends laugh at you ! I know some of 
;hem — when I know them all I shall never 
:hink of them again as friends or even 
vcquaintance. My friends have behaved 
well to me in every instance but one, and 
here they have become tattlers, and in- 
uisitors into my conduct : spying upon a 
ecret I would rather die than share it with 
ny body's confidence. For this I cannot 
ish them well, I care not to see any of 
;hem again. If I am the Theme, I will 
lot be the Friend of idle Gossips. Good 
^ods what a shame it is our Loves should 
e so put into the microscope of a Coterie. 
!'heir laughs should not affect you (I may 
erhaps give you reasons some day for 
these laughs, for I suspect a few people to 
hate me well enough, for reasons I know of, 
.Who have pretended a great friendship for 
ime) when in competition with one, who if 
he never should see you again would make 
you the Saint of his memory. These 
[Laughers, who do, not like you, who envy 
lyou for your Beautj'^, who would have God- 
Wess'd me from you for ever : who were 
plying me with disencouragements with 
respect to you eternally. People are re- 
vengeful — do not mind them — do nothing 
but love me — if I knew that for certain 
life and health will in such event be a hea- 
jven, and death itself will be less painful. 
Il long to believe in immortality. I shall 
never be able to bid you an entire farewell. 
If I am destined to be happy with you here 
— how short is the longest Life. I wish 
to believe in immortality — I wish to live 
with you for ever. Do not let my name 
ever pass between you and those laughers ; 
if I have no other merit than the great 
Love for you, that were sufficient to keep 
me sacred and unmentioned in such society. 



If I have been cruel and unjust I swear 
my love has ever been greater than my 
cruelty which last [^sic^ but a minute whereas 
my Love come what will shall last for ever. 
If concession to me has hurt your Pride 
God knows I have had little pride in my 
heart when thinking of you. Your name 
never passes my Lips — do not let mine 
pass yours. Those People do not like me. 
After reading my Letter you even then 
wish to see me. I am strong enough to 
walk over — but I dare not. I shall feel 
so much pain in parting with you again. 
My dearest love, I am afraid to see you ; 
I am strong, but not strong enough to see 
you. Will my arm be ever round you 
again, and if so shall I be obliged to leave 
you again ? My sweet Love ! I am happy 
whilst I believe your first Letter. Let 
me be but certain that you are mine heart 
and soul, and I could die more happily than 
I could otherwise live. If you think me 
cruel — if you think I have sleighted you 
— do muse it over again and see into my 
heart. My love to you is ' true as truth's 
simplicity and simpler than the infancy of 
truth ' as I think I once said before. How 
could I sleight you ? How threaten to 
leave you ? not in the spirit of a Threat to 
you — no — but in the spirit of Wretched- 
ness in myself. My fairest, my delicious, 
my angel Fanny ! do not believe me such 
a vulgar fellow. I will be as patient in 
illness and as believing in Love as I am 
able. 

Yours for ever my dearest 
John Keats. 

199. to the same 

I do not write this till the last, 
that no eye may catch it. 

My dearest Girl — I wish you could 
invent some means to make me at all happy 
without you. Every hour I am more and 
more concentrated in you ; every thing else 
tastes like chaff in my Mouth. I feel it 



442 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



1 



almost impossible to go to Italy — the fact 
is I cannot leave you, and shall never taste 
one minute's content until it pleases chance 
to let me live with you for good. But I 
will not go on at this rate. A person in 
health as you are can have no conception of 
the horrors that nerves and a temper like 
mine go through. What Island do your 
friends propose retiring to ? I should be 
happy to go with you there alone, but in 
company I should object to it ; the back- 
bitings and jealousies of new colonists who 
have nothing else to amuse themselves, is 
unbearable. Mr. Dilke came to see me 
yesterday, and gave me a very great deal 
more pain than pleasure. I shall never be 
able any more to endure the society of any 
of those who used to meet at Elm Cottage 
and Wentworth Place. The last two years 
taste like brass upon my Palate. If I can- 
not live with you I will live alone. I do 
not think my health will improve much 
while I am separated from you. For all 
this I am averse to seeing you — I cannot 
bear flashes of light and return into my 
gloom again. I am not so unhappy now as 
I should be if I had seen you yesterday. 
To be happy with you seems such an im- 
possibility ! it requires a luckier Star than 
mine ! it will never be. I enclose a pas- 
sage from one of your letters which I want 
you to alter a little — I want (if you will 
have it so) the matter express'd less coldly 
to me. If my health would bear it, I could 
write a Poem which I have in my head, 
which would be a consolation for people in 
such a situation as mine. I would show 
some one in Love as I am, with a person 
living in such Liberty as you do. Shake- 
speare always sums up matters in the most 
sovereign manner. Hamlet's heart was full 
of such Misery as mine is when he said to 
Ophelia ' Go to a Nunnery, go, go ! ' In- 
deed I should like to give up the matter at 
once — I should like to die. I am sickened 
at the brute world which you are smiling 
with. I hate men, and women more. I see 



nothing but thorns for the future — wher- 
ever I may be next winter, in Italy or no- 
where, Brown will be living near you with 
his indecencies. I see no prospect of any 
rest. Suppose me in Rome — well, I should 
there see you as in a magic glass going to i 

and from town at all hours, I wish ' 

you could infuse a little confidence of hu- 
man nature into my heart. I cannot mus- 
ter any — the world is too brutal for me — 
I am glad there is such a thing as the 
grave — I am sure I shall never have any 
rest till I get there. At any rate I will 
indulge myself by never seeing any more 
Dilke or Brown or any of their Friends. 
I wish I was either in your arms full of 
faith or that a Thunder bolt would strike 



God bless you. 



209. TO FANNY KEATS 



J.K. 



Wentworth Place [August 14, 1820]. 
My dear Fanny — 'Tis a long time 
since I received your last. An accident of 
an unpleasant nature occurred at Mr. Hunt's 
and prevented me from answering you, 
that is to say made me nervous. That you 
may not suppose it worse I will mention 
that some one of Mr. Hunt's household 
opened a Letter of mine — upon which I 
immediately left Mortimer Terrace, with 
the intention of taking to Mrs. Bentley's 
again ; fortunately I am not in so lone a 
situation, but am staying a short time with 
Mrs. Brawne who lives in the house which 
was Mrs. Dilke's. I am excessively ner- 
vous : a person I am not quite used to en- 
tering the room half chokes me. 'T is not 
yet Consumption I believe, but it would 
be were I to remain in this climate all the 
Winter : so I am thinking of either voya- 
ging or travelling to Italy. Yesterday I 
received an invitation from Mr. Shelley, a 
Gentleman residing at Pisa, to spend the 
Winter with him : if I go I must be away 
in a month or even less. I am glad you 



TO JOHN TAYLOR 



443 



ke the Poems, you must hope with me 
aat time and health will produce you some 
aore. This is the first morning I have 

een able to sit to the paper and have many 
iistters to write if I can manage them. 
Ijrod bless you my dear Sister. 
t Your affectionate Brother John . 



• 201. TO PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

i 

jWentworth Place, Hampstead, August, 1820.] 

I My dear Shelley — I am very much 
ratified that you, in a foreign country, 
ind with a mind almost over-occupied, 
hould write to me in the strain of the let- 
er beside me. If I do not take advan- 
age of your invitation, it will be prevented 
»y a circumstance I have very much at 
leart to prophesy. There is no doubt that 
in English winter would put an end to 
ne, and do so in a lingering hateful mau- 
ler. Therefore, I must either voyage or 
fourney to Italy, as a soldier marches 
p to a battery. My nerves at present 
re the worst part of me, yet they feel 
jsoothed that, come what extreme may, 
[ shall not be destined to remain in one 
^pot long enough to take a hatred of 
lany four particular bedposts. I am glad 
^'ou take any pleasure in my poor poem, 
which I would willingly take the trou- 
ble to unwrite, if possible, did I care so 
much as I have done about reputation. I 
received a copy of the Cenci, as from your- 
self, from Hunt. There is only one part 
of it I am judge of — the poetry and 
dramatic effect, which by many spirits 
nowadays is considered the Mammon. A 
modern work, it is said, must have a pur- 
pose, which may be the God. An artist 
must serve Mammon ; he must have " self- 
concentration " — selfishness, perhaps. You, 
I am sure, will forgive me for sincerely 
remarking that you might curb your mag- 
nanimity, and be more of an artist, and 
load every rift of your subject with ore. 



The thought of such discipline must fall 
like cold chains upon you, who perhaps 
never sat with your wings furled for six 
months together. And is this not extraor- 
dinary talk for the writer of Endymion, 
whose mind was like a pack of scattered 
cards ? I am picked up and sorted to a pip. 
My imagination is a monastery, and I am 
its monk. I am iu expectation of Prome- 
theus every day. Could I have my own 
wish effected, you would have it still in 
manuscript, or be but now putting an end 
to the second act. I remember you advis- 
ing me not to publish my first blights, on 
Hampstead Heath. I am returning advice 
upon your hands. Most of the poems in 
the volume I send you have been written 
above two years, and would never have 
been published but for hope of gain ; so 
you see I am inclined enough to take your 
advice now. I must express once more 
my deep sense of your kindness, adding 
my sincere thanks and respects for Mrs. 
Shelley. 

In the hope of soon seeing you, I remain 
most sincerely yours John Keats. 



202. TO JOHN TAYLOR 

Wentworth Place [August 14, 1820]. 
My dear Taylor — My chest is in such 
a nervous state, that anything extra, such 
as speaking to an unaccustomed person, or 
writing a note, half suffocates me. This 
journey to Italy wakes me at daylight 
every morning, and hauifts me horribly. I 
shall endeavour to go, though it be with the 
sensation of marching up against a battery. 
The first step towards it is to know the ex- 
pense of a journey and a year's residence, 
which if you will ascertain for me, and let 
me know early, you will greatly serve me. 
I have more to saj^ but must desist, for 
every line I write increases the tightness of 
my chest, and I have manj- more to do. I 
am convinced that this sort of thing does 



444 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



not continue for nothing. If you can come, 
with any of our friends, do. 

Your sincere friend John Keats. 



203. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 

Mrs. Brawne's Next door to Brown's, 
Wentworth Place, Hampstead, 

[August] 1820. 

My dear Haydon — I am much better 
this morning than I was when I wrote the 
note: that is my hopes and spirits are bet- 
ter which are generally at a very low ebb 
from such a protracted illness. I shall be 
here for a little time and at home all and 
every day. A journey to Italy is recom- 
mended me, which I have resolved upon 
and am beginning to prepare for. Hoping 
to see you shortly 

I remain your affectionate friend 

John Keats. 



204. to JOHN TAYLOR 

Wentworth Place [August 15, 1820]. 

My dear Taylor — I do not think I 
mentioned anything of a. Passage to Leg- 
horn by Sea. Will you join that to your 
enquiries, and, if you can, give a peep at 
the Berth if the Vessel is [in] our river. 

Your sincere friend John Keats. 

P. S. — Somehow a copy of Chapman's 
Homer, lent to me by Haydon, has disap- 
peared from my Lodgings — it has quite 
flown I am "afraid, and Haydon urges the 
return of it so that I must get one at Long- 
man's and send it to Lisson Grove — or 
you must — or as I have given you a job on 
the River — ask Mistessey [Mr. Hessey]. 
I had written a Note to this effect to Hes- 
sey some time since but crumpled it up in 
hopes that the Book might come to light. 
This morning Haydon has sent another 
messenger. The copy was in good condition 
with the head. Damn all thieves ! Tell 
Woodhouse I have not lost his Blackwood. 



Testamentary paper enclosed in the foregoing. 

My chest of Books divide among my 
friends. 

In case of my death this scrap of paper i 
may be serviceable in your possession. 

All my Estate real and personal consists : 
in the hopes of the sale of books publish'd 1 
or unpublish'd. Now I wish Brown and 1 
you to be the first paid Creditors — the rest ; 
is in nubibus — but in case it should shower 
pay my Taylor the few pounds I owe him. 

205. to CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN 

[Wentworth Place, August 1820.] , 
My dear Brown — You may not have 

heard from , or , or in any way, ' 

that an attack of spitting of blood, and all 
its weakening consequences, has prevented 
me from writing for so long a time. I 
have matter now for a very long letter, but 
not news : so I must cut everything short. 
I shall make some confession, which you 
will be the only person, for many reasons, 
I shall trust with. A winter in England 
would, I have not a doubt, kill me ; so I have 
resolved to go to Italy, either by sea or 
land. Not that I have any great hopes of 
that, for, I think, there is a core of disease 
in me not easy to pull out. I shall be 
obliged to set off in less than a month. Do 
not, my dear Brown, tease yourself about 
me. You must fill up your time as well 
as you can, and as happily. You must 
think of my faults as lightly as you can. 
When I have health 1 will bring up the . 
long arrear of letters I owe you. My book 
has had good success among the literary 
people, and I believe has a moderate sale. 
I have seen very few people we know. 

has visited me more than any one. I 

would go to and make some inquiries 

after you, if I could with any bearable 
sensation ; but a person I am not quite 
used to causes an oppression on my chest. 
Last week I received a letter from Shelley, 
at Pisa, of a very kind nature, asking me 



TO 



445 



to pass the winter with him. Hunt has be- 
haved very kindly to me. You shall hear 
from me again shortly. 

Your affectionate friend John Keats. 

206. TO FANNY KEATS 

Wentworth Place, Wednesday morning 

[August 23, 1820]. 

My dear Fanny — It will give me 
' great Pleasure to see you here, if you can 
contrive it ; though I confess I should have 
written instead of calling upon you before 
I set out on my journey, from the wish of 
avoiding unpleasant partings. Meantime I 
will just notice some parts of your Letter. 
The seal-breaking business is over blown. 
I think no more of it. A few days ago I 
wrote to Mr. Brown, asking him to be- 
friend me with his company to Rome. His 
answer is not yet come, and I do not know 
when it will, not being certain how far he 
may be from the Post Office to which my 
communication is addressed. Let us hope 
he will go with me. George certainly 
ought to have written to you : his troubles, 
anxieties and fatigues are not quite a suf- 
ficient excuse. In the course of time you 
will be sure to find that this neglect is 
not forgetfulness. I am sorry to hear you 
have been so ill and in such low spirits. 
Now you are better, keep so. Do not suf- 
fer your Mind to dwell on unpleasant re- 
flections — that sort of thing has been the 
destruction of my health. Nothing is so 
bad as want of health — it makes one envy 
scavengers and cinder-sifters. There are 
enough real distresses and evils in wait for 
every one to try the most vigorous health. 
Not that I would say yours are not real — 
but they are such as to tempt you to em- 
ploy your imagination on them, rather than 
endeavour to dismiss them entirely. Do 
not diet your mind with grief, it destroys 
the constitution ; but'J^t your chief care be 
of your health, and with that you will meet 
your share of Pleasure in the world — do 



not doubt it. If I return well from Italy 
I will turn over a new leaf for you. I have 
been improving lately, and have very good 
hopes of * turning a Neuk ' and cheating 
the consumption. I am not well enough to 
write to George myself — Mr. Haslam will 
do it for me, to whom I shall write to- 
day, desiring him to mention as gently as 
possible your complaint. I am, my dear 
Fanny, 
Your affectionate Brother John. 



207. TO CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN 

[Wentworth Place, August 1820.] 
My DEAR Brown — I ought to be off 
at the end of this week, as the cold winds 
begin to blow towards evening ; — but I 
will wait till I have your answer to this. 
I am to be introduced, before I set out, to 
a Dr. Clark, a physician settled at Rome, 
who promises to befriend me in every way 
there. The sale of my book is very slow, 
though it has been very highly rated. One 
of the causes, I understand from different 
quarters, of the unpopularity of this new 
book, is the offence the ladies take at me. 
On thinking that matter over, I am certain 
that I have said nothing in a spirit to dis- 
please any woman I would care to ple.ise ; 
but still there is a tendency to class women 
in my books with roses and sweetmeats, — 
they never see themselves dominant. I 
will say no more, but, waiting in anxiety 
for your answer, doff my hat, and make a 
purse as long as I can. 
Your affectionate friend 

John Keats. 

208. TO 

[September, 1820.] " 
The passport arrived before we started. 
I don't think I shall be long ill. God bless 
you — farewell. 

John Keats. 



446 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



209. TO CHARLES ABMITAGE BROWN 

Saturday, September 28 [1820], Maria Crowtker, 
Off Yarmouth, Isle of Wight. 

My dear Brown — The time has not 
yet come for a pleasant letter from me. I 
have delayed writing to you from time to 
time, because I felt how impossible it was 
to enliven you with one heartening hope 
of my recovery ; this morning in bed the 
matter struck me in a different manner ; I 
thought I would write ' while I was in some 
liking,' or I might become too ill to write 
at all ; and then if the desire to have writ- 
ten should become strong it would be a 
great affliction to me. I have many more 
letters to write, and I bless my stars that I 
have begun, for time seems to press, — this 
may be my best opportunity. We are in a 
calm, and I am easy enough this morning. 
If my spirits seem too low you may in some 
degree impute it to our having been at sea 
a fortnight without making any way.*' I 
was very disappointed at not meeting you 
at Bedhampton, and am very provoked at 
the thought of you being at Chichester to- 
day. I should have delighted in setting off 
for London for the sensation merely, — for 
what should I do there ? I could not leave 
my lungs or stomach or other worse things 
behind me. I wish to write on subjects 
that will not agitate me much — there is 
one I must mention and have done with it. 
Even if my body would recover of itself, 
this would prevent it. The very thing 
which I want to live most for will be a 
great occasion of my death. I cannot help 
it. Who can help it ? Were I in health 
it would make me ill, and how can I bear it 
in my state ! I daresay you will be able to 
guess on what subject I am harping — you 
know what was my greatest pain during 
the first part of my illness at your house. 
I wish for death every day and night to de- 
liver me from these pains, and then I wish 
death away, for death would destroy even 
those pains which are better than nothing. 



Land and sea, weakness and decline, are 
great separators, but death is the great 
divorcer for ever. When the pang of this 
thought has passed through my mind, I 
may say the bitterness of death is passed. 
I often wish for you that you might flatter 
me with the best. 1 think without my 
mentioning it for my sake you would be a 
friend to Miss Brawne when I am dead. 
You think she has many faults — but for 
my sake think she has not one. If there is 
anything you can do for her by word or 
deed I know you will do it. I am in a 
state at present in which woman merely as 
woman can have no more powe^i over me 
than stocks and stones, and yet the differ- 
ence of my sensations with respect to Miss 
Brawne and my sister is amazing. The 
one seems to absorb the other to a degree 
incredible. I seldom think of my brother 
and sister in America. The thought of 
leaving Miss Brawne is beyond everything 
horrible — the sense of darkness coming 
over me — I eternally see her figure eter- I 
nally vanishing. Some of the phrases she j 
was in the habit of using during my last ^ 
nursing at Weutworth Place ring in my ' 
ears. Is there another life ? Shall I awake 
and find all this a dream ? There must be, 
we cannot be created for this sort of suffer- 
ing. The receiving this letter is to be one 
of yours. I will say nothing about our 
friendship, or rather yours to me, more 
than that, as you deserve to escape, you 
will never be so unhappy as I am. I should 
think of — you in my last moments. I 
shall endeavour to write to Miss Brawne if 
possible to-day. A sudden stop to my life 
in the middle of one of these letters "would 
be no bad thing, for it keeps one in a sort 
of fever awhile. Though fatigued with a 
letter longer than any I have written for a 
long while, it would be better to go on for 
ever than awake to a sense of contrary 
winds. We expect to put into Portland 
Roads to-night. The captain, the crew, 
and the passengers, are all ill-tempered and 



TO CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN 



447 



weary. I shall write to Dilke. I feel as 
if I was closing my last letter to you. 
My dear Brown, your affectionate friend 
John Keats. 



210. TO MRS. BBAWNB 

October 24 [1820], Naples Harbour. 
My dear Mrs. Brawne — A few words 
will tell you what sort of a Passage we had, 
and what situation we are in, and few they 
must be on account of the Quarantine, our 
Letters being liable to be opened for the 
purpose of fumigation at the Health Office. 
We have to remain in the vessel ten days 
and are at present shut iu a tier of ships. 
The sea air has been beneficial to me about 
to as great an extent as squally weather 
and bad accommodations and provisions has 
done harm. So I am about as I was. Give 
my Love to Fanny and tell her, if I were 
well there is enough in this Port of Naples 
to fill a quire of Paper — but it looks like a 
dream — every man who can row his boat 
and walk and talk seems a different being 
from myself. I do not feel in the world. 
It has been unfortunate for me that one of 
the Passengers is a young Lady in a Con- 
sumption — her imprudence has vexed me 
very much — the knowledge of her com- 
plaints — the flushings in her face, all her 
bad symptoms have preyed upon me — 
they woidd have done so had I been in 
good health. Severn now is a very good 
fellow but his nerves are too strong to be 
hurt by other people's illnesses — I remem- 
ber poor Rice wore me in the same way in 
the Isle of Wight — I shall feel a load off 
me when the Lady vanishes out of my sight. 
It is impossible to describe exactly in what 
state of health I am — at this moment I am 
suffering from indigestion very much, which 
makes such stuff of this Letter. I would 
always wish you to think me a little worse 
than I really am ; not being of a sanguine 
disposition I am likely to succeed. If I do 
not recover your regret will be softened — 
if I do your pleasure will be doubled. I 



dare not fix my Mind upon Fanny, I have 
not dared to think of her. The only com- 
fort I have had that way has been in think- 
ing for hours together of having the knife 
she gave me put in a silver-case — the hair 
in a Locket — and the Pocket Book in a 
gold net. Show her this. I dare say no 
more. Yet you must not believe I am so ill 
as this Letter may look, for if ever there was 
a person born without the faculty of hoping 
I am he. Severn is writing to Haslam, and 
I have just asked him to request Haslam 
to send you his account of my health. O 
what an account I could give you of the 
Bay of Naples if I could once more feel 
myself a Citizen of this world — I feel a 
spirit in my Brain would lay it forth plea- 
santly — O what a misery it is to have an 
intellect in splints ! My Love again to 
Fanny — tell Tootts I wish I could pitch her 
a basket of grapes — and tell Sam the fel- 
lows catch here with a line a little fish 
much like an anchovy, pull them up fast. 
Remember me to Mr. and Mrs. Dilke — 
mention to Brown that I wrote him a letter 
at Portsmouth which I did not send and am 
in doubt if he ever will see it. 

My dear Mrs. Brawne, yours sincerely 
and affectionate John Keats. 

Good bye Fanny ! God bless you. 

211. TO CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN 

Naples, November 1 [1820]. 
My dear Brown — Yesterday we were 
let out of quarantine, during which my 
health suffered more from bad air and the 
stifled cabin than it had done the whole 
voyage. The fresh air revived me a little, 
and I hope I am well enough this morning 
to write to you a short calm letter ; — if 
that can be called one, in which I am afraid 
to speak of what I would f ainest dwell upon. 
As I have gone thus far into it, I must go 
on a little ; — perhaps it may relieve the 
load of WRETCHEDNESS which presses upon 
me. The persuasion that I shall see her 
no more will kill me. My dear Brown, I 



448 



LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 



should have had her when I was in health, 
and I should have remained well. I can 
bear to die — I cannot bear to leave her. 
Oh, God ! God ! God ! Every thing I have 
in my trunks that reminds me of her goes 
through me like a spear. The silk lining 
she put in my travelling cap scalds my 
head. My imagination is horribly vivid 
about her — I see her — I hear her. There 
is nothing in the world of sufficient interest 
to divert me from her a moment. This 
was the case when I was in England ; I 
cannot recollect, without shuddering, the 
time that I was a prisoner at Hunt's, and 
used to keep my eyes fixed on Hampstead 
all day. Then there was a good hope of 
seeing her again — Now ! — O that I could 
be buried near where she lives ! I am 
afraid to write to her — to receive a letter 
from her — to see her hand-writing would 
break my heart — even to hear of her 
anyhow, to see her name written, would 
be more than I can bear. My dear Brown, 
what am I to do? Where can I look 
for consolation or ease ? If I had any 
chance of recovery, this passion would kill 
me. Indeed, through the whole of my 
illness, both at your house and at Kentish 
Town, this fever has never ceased wearing 
me out. When you write to me, which you 
will do immediately, write to Rome (poste 
restante) — if she is well and happy, put a 

mark thus -}- ; if 

Remember me to all. I will endeavour 
to bear my miseries patiently. A person 
in my state of health should not have such 
miseries to bear. Write a short note to my 
sister, saying you have heard from me. 
Severn is very well. If I were in better 
health I would urge your coming to Rome. 
I fear there is no one can give me any com- 
fort. Is there any news of George ? O 
that something fortunate had ever happened 
to me or my brothers ! — then I might hope, 
— but despair is forced upon me as a habit. 
My dear Brown, for my sake be her advo- 
cate for ever. I cannot say a word about 
Naples ; I do not feel at all concerned in 



the thousand novelties around me. I am 
afraid to write to her — I should like her to 
know that I do not forget her. Oh, Brown 
I have coals of fire in my breast — It sur- 
prises me that the human heart is capable 
of containing and bearing so much misery. 
Was I born for this end ? God bless her, 
and her mother, and my sister, and George, 
and his wife, and you, and all ! 
Your ever affectionate friend 

John Keats. 

[Thursday, November 2.] 
I was a day too early for the Courier. 
He sets out now. I have been more calm 
to-day, though in a half dread of not con- 
tinuing so. I said nothing of my health ; 
I know nothing of it ; you will hear Severn's 
account from Haslam. I must leave off. 
You bring my thoughts too near to Fanny. 
God bless you ! 

212. TO THE SAMB 

Rome, November 30, 1820. 
My dear Brown — 'T is the most diffi- 
cult thing in the world to me to write a 
letter. My stomach continues so bad, that 
I feel it worse on opening any book, — yet 
I am much better than I was in quarantine. 
Then I am afraid to encounter the pro-ing 
and con-ing of anything interesting to me 
in England. I have an habitual feeling 
of my real life having passed, and that I 
am leading a posthumous existence. God 
knows how it would have been — but it 
appears to me — however, I will not speak 
of that subject. I must have been at Bed- 
hampton nearly at the time you were writ- 
ing to me from Chichester — how unfortu- 
nate — and to pass on the river too !' There 
was my star predominant ! I cannot an- 
swer anything in your letter, which fol- 
lowed me from Naples to Rome, because 
I am afraid to look it over again. I am 
so weak (in mind) that I cannot bear the 
sight of any handwriting of a friend I love 
so much as I do you. Yet I ride the little 



TO CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN 



449 



horse, and at my worst even in quarantine, 
summoned up more puns, in a sort of de- 
speration, in one week than in any year of 
my life. There is one thought enough to 
kill me ; I have been well, healthy, alert, 
etc., walking with her, and now — the 
knowledge of contrast, feeling for light and 
shade, all that information (primitive sense) 
necessary for a poem, are great enemies to 
the recovery of the stomach. There, you 
rogue, I put you to the torture ; but you 
must bring your philosophy to bear, as I do 
mine, really, or how should I be able to 
live ? Dr. Clark is very attentive to me ; he 
says there is very little the matter with my 
I lungs, but my stomach, he says, is very bad. 
I am well disappointed in hearing good news 
from George, for it runs in my head we 
shall all die young. I have not written to 
Reynolds yet, which he must think very 



neglectful ; being anxious to send him a 
good account of my health, I have delayed 
it from week to week. If I recover, I will 
do all in my power to correct the mistakes 
made during sickness ; and if I should not, 
all my faults will be forgiven. Severn is 
very well, though he leads so dull a life 
with me. Remember me to all friends, 
and tell Haslam I should not have left 
London without taking leave of him, but 
from being so low in body and mind. 
Write to George as soon as you receive 
this, and tell him how I am, as far as you 
can guess ; and also a note to my sister — 
who walks about my imagination like a 
ghost — she is so like Tom. I can scarcely 
bid you good-bye, even in a letter. I al- 
ways made an awkward bow. 
God bless you ! 

John Keats. 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



I. POEMS 

Page 1. IivnTATiON of Spenser. 

A transcript of this poem in a copy-book of 
Tom Keats contains two variations from the 
text of 1817. Line 12 reads, 

' Whose silken fins, and golden scales light ' 

and in line 29 glassy for glossy. The first read- 
ing is required by the rhythm ; but the absence 
of the mark of the possessive case leads one to 
think that the accent mark may have been a 
hasty reading of the proper mark as printed. 

Page 9. On First Looking into Chap- 
man's Homer. 

That it was Balboa and not Cortez who first 
saw the Pacific Ocean, an American school-boy 
could have told Keats ; but it is not such slips 
as these that unmake poetry. 

Page 9. Epistle to George Felton Ma- 

THEW. 

Line 75. The quotation is from The Faerie 
Queene, I. iii. 4. 

Page 11. To 

The original valentine of which these lines 
are an enlargement was as follows : — 

~ * Hadst thou lived in days of old, 

Oh, what wonders had been told 
Of thy lively dimpled face, 
And tliy footsteps full of grace : 
Of thy hair's luxurious darkling. 
Of thine eye's expressive sparkling, 
And thy voice's swelling rapture, 
Taking hearts a ready capture. 
Oh ! if thou hadst breathed then, 
Thou hadst made the Muses ten. 
Couldst thou wish for lineage higher 
Than twin sister of Thalia ? 
At least for ever, ever more 
Will I call the Graces four.' 

Then follow lines 41-68, and the valentme 
closes, — 

' Ah me ! whither shall I flee ? 
Thou hast metamorphosed me. 
Do not let me sigh and pine, 
Prythee be my valentine.' 

Page 13. Sonnet : To one who has been 

LONG IN CITY PENT. 

Mr. Forman points out Keats's echo in the 
first line of Milton's line. 



' As one who long in populous city pent ' 

Paradise Lost, ix. 445. 

Page 14. ' I STOOD TIP-TOE UPON A LITTLE 
HILL.' 

Line 115. Lord Houghton gives this varied 
reading for this and the next line : — 

' Floating through space with ever-living eye, 
The crowned queen of ocean and the sky.' 

Page 18. Sleep and Poetry. 
Line 274. Rhythm seems to require the emen- 
dation proposed by Mr. Forman : — 

' Ere the dread thimderbolt could reach me ? How ' 

Page 27. Specimen of an Induction to 
A Poem. 

Line 61. Libertas is the name which his 
friends gave to Leigh Hunt. See later the 
Epistle to Charles Cowden Clarke, line 
44. Mrs. Clarke confirms the application. 

Page 28. Calidore. 

Line 40. In a transcript in Tom Keats's copy- 
book, this and the next line read : — 

' Its long lost grandeur. Laburnums grow around 
And bow their golden honours to the ground.' 

Page 33. Addressed to Benjamin Robert 
Haydon. 

The references in the first sonnet are to 
Wordsworth and Hunt. 

Page 35. On the Grasshopper and 
Cricket. 

Leigh Hunt's competing sonnet is as follows : 

' Green Uttle vaulter in the sunny grass 
Catching your heart up at the feel of June, 
Sole voice that 's heard amidst the lazy noon, 

When ev'n the bees lag at the summoning brass ; 

And you, warm little housekeeper, who class 
With those who think the candles come too soon, 
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune 

Nick the glad silent moments as they pass ; 

Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that belong. 
One to the fields, the other to the hearth, 

Botl^have your sunshine ; both though small are strong 
At your clear hearts ; and both were sent on earth 

To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song, — 
In doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.' 

Page 40. Lines on the Mermaid Tavern. 
Sir Charles DUke has a manuscript copy of 
which the four closing lines are : — 



452 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



' Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
Are the winds a sweeter home, 
Richer is uncellar'd cavern 
Than the merry Mermaid Tavern ? ' 

Page 41. Robin Hood. 

Line 36. Grene skaw = green wood, Shaw 
frequently appears in the termination of English 
local names. 

Page 49. Endymion. 

The variations here noted in Book I. are from 
the manuscript copy supplied to the printer, and 
are furnished by Mr. Forman in liis edition of 
Keats. They were discarded by the poet either 
before he gave his copy in, or in his proofs. 

Line 13. 
From our dark Spirits, and before us dances 
Like glitter on the points of Arthur's Lances. 

Of these bright powers are the Sun, and Moon. 

Line 24. Telling us we are on the heaven's 
brink. 

Line 94. And so the coming light in pomp 
receive. 

Line 153. 
From his right hand there swung a milk white 

vase 
Of mingled wines, outsparkling like the stars. 

Apparently Keats gave the broad sound to a 
in vase, but rejected the false rhyme. See the 

lines To , p. 12, where vase rhymes with 

pace. 

Line 208. Needments. See the Faery Queene, 
Book I. canto vi., stanza 35, lines 55, 56, 

' and eke behind, 
His scrip did hang, in which his needments he did 
bind.' 

Line 232. It is interesting to note that the 
Hymn to Pan beginning here was recited by 
Keats to Wordsworth when lie met the elder 
poet at Haydon's house, December 28, 1817. 

Lines 407-412. 

Now happily, there sitting on the grass 
Was fair Peona, a most tender Lass, 
And his sweet sister ; who, uprising, went 
With stifled sobs, and o'er his shoulder leant. 
Putting her trembling hand against his cheek 
She said : ' My dear Endymion, let us seek 
A pleasant bower where thou may'st rest 

apart. 
And ease in slumber thine afflicted heart : 
Come, my own dearest brother: these our 

friends 
Will joy in thinking thou dost sleep whore 
bends 



Our freshening River through yon birchen 

grove : 
Do come now ! ' Could he gainsay her who 

strove. 
So soothingly, to breathe away a Curse ? 

Lines 440-442. 
When last the Harvesters rich armf uls took. 
She tied a little bucket to a Crook, 
Ran some swift paces to a dark well's side. 
And in a sighing-time return'd, supplied 
With spar-cold water ; in which she did squeeze 
A snowy napkin, and upon her knees 
Began to cherish her poor Brother's face ; 
Damping refreshfully his forehead's space, 
ffis eyes, his Lips : then in a cupped shell 
She brought him ruby wine ; then let him 

smell, 
Time after time, a precious amulet, 
Which seldom took she from its cabinet. 
Thus was he quieted to slumbrous rest : 

Line 466. 
A cheerf uller resignment, and a smile 
For his fair Sister flowing like the Nile 
Through all the channels of her piety. 
He said : ' Dear Maid, may I this moment die. 
If I feel not this thine endearing Love. 

Lines 470-472, 
From woodbine hedges such a morning feel, 
As do those brighter drops, that twinkling steal 
Through those pressed lashes, from the blos' 
som'd plant 

Lines 494, 495. 
More forest-wild, more subtle-cadenced 
Than can be told by mortal ; even wed 
The fainting tenors of a thousand shells 
To a million whisperings of lily bells ; 
And mingle too the nightingale's complain 
Caught in its hundredth echo ; 't would be 
vain: 

Lines 539, 540. 
And come to such a Ghost as I am now I 
But listen. Sister, I will tell thee how. 

Lines 545, 556. 
And in this spot the most endowing boon 
Of balmy air, sweet blooms, and coverts fresh 
Has been outshed ; yes, all that could enmesh 
Our human senses — make us fealty swear 
To gadding Flora. In this grateful lair 
Have I been used to pass my weary eves. 

Line 555. Ditamy. So Keats unmistakably in 
manuscript and print. The prevailing form is 
dittany. 



POEMS 



453 



Line 573. Mr. Forman says that in the manu- 
script something was written over this line in 
pencil, but then rubbed out. He suggests that 
after all Keats decided to leave the reader to 
accent the first syllable of enchantment, and so 
correct the otherwise faulty rhythm. 

Lines GOO, 601. 
And to commune with them once more I rais'd 
My eyes right upward : but they were quite 
dazed. 

An example of the freedom of accent which 
Keats uses in common with other poets who 
have a mastery of line. 

Line 632. Handfuls of bud-stars. 

Line 646. 
But lapp'd and lull'd in safe deliriousness ; 
Sleepy with deep foretasting, that did bless 
My Soul from Madness, 't was such certainty. 

Line 651. 

There hollow sounds arous'd me, and I died. 

Line 665. 
Our feet were soft in flowers. Hurry o'er 
O sacrilegious tongue the — best be dumb ; 
For should one little accent from thee come 
On such a daring theme, all other sounds 
Would sicken at it, as would beaten hounds 
Scare the elysian Nightingales. 

Line 722. 
This all ? Yet it is wonderful — exceeding — 
And yet a shallow dream, for ever breeding 
Tempestuous Weather in that very Soul 
That should be twice content, twice smooth, 

twice whole. 
As is a double Peach. 'T is sad Alas ! 

Lines 896, 897. 
Li the green opening smiling. Gods that keep. 
Mercifully, a little strength of heart 
Unkill'd in us by raving, pang and smart ; 
And do preserve it like a lily root, 
That, in another spring, it may outshoot 
From its wintry prison ; let this hour go 
Drawling along its heavy weight of woe 
And leave me living 1 'T is not more than 

need — 
Your veriest help. Ah ! how long did I feed 
On that crystalline life of Portraiture ! 
How hover' d breathless at the tender lure ! 
How many times dimpled the watery glass 
With maddest kisses ; and, till they did pass 
And leave the liquid smooth again, how mad ! 
O 't was as if the absolute sisters had 
My Life into the compass of a Nut 
Or aU my breathing and shut 

To a scanty straw. To look above I fear'd 



Lest my hot eyeballs might be burnt and 

sear'd 
By a blank naught. It moved as if to flee — 

Line 9<i4. 
Most fondly lipp'd. I kept me still — it came 
Again in passionatest syllables. 
And thus again that voice's tender swells : 

Not quite content with passionatest, Keats 
tried again : 

' Again in passionate syllables : saying ' 

Book II. The variations in this and the suc- 
ceeding books are recorded by Mr. Forman and 
are derived from two sources, — the first draft 
made by Keats, and the manuscript afterward 
sent by him to the printer. Those here noted 
are from the first draft, unless otherwise noted. 

Line 13. Close, i. e., embrace. 

Lines 27-30. Juliet leans 

Amid her window flowers, sighs, — and as she 

weans 
Her maiden thoughts from their young firstling 

snow, 
What sorrows from the melting whiteness grow. 

Line 31. The Hero is that of Shakespeare's 
Much Ado about Nothing, the Imogen the hero- 
ine in his Cymbeline. 

Line 32. Pastorella. See Faerie Queene, VI. 
ii. 

Line 38. Rest in the sense of remaining inac- 
tive, not the rest of restoration. 

Line 49. 
Through vdldemess, and brittle mossed oaks. 

Line 56. 
Bends lightly over him, and he doth see. 

Line 83. 
Went swift beneath the flutter-loving guide. 

Lines 93, 94. 
Endymion all around the welkin sped 
His anxious sight. 

Lines 96, 97. 
His sullen limbs upon the grass — what tongue, 
What airy whisperer spoilt his angry rest ? 

Line 102, 
And carelessly began to twine and twist. 

Lines 143, 144. 
His soul to take a city of delight 
O what a wretch is he : 't is in his sight. 

Line 227. 
Whose track the venturous Latmian follows 
bold. 



454 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



Lines 253, 254. 
The mighty ones who 've shone athwart the day 
Of Greece and England. 

Lines 270-272. 
Himself with every mystery, until 
His weary legs he rested on the sill 
Of some remotest chamber, outlet dim. 

Lines 278-280. 
Whose flitting Lantern, through rude nettle- 
beds, 
Cheats us into a bog, — cuttings and shreds 
Of old Vexations plaited to a rope 
Wherewith to haul us from the sight of hope. 
And bind us to our earthly baiting-ring. 

Line 285. The reading raught is derived from 
the manuscript, though the first edition has 
caught. 

Line 363. Originally this imperfect line 
read, — 

' To seas Ionian and Tyrian. Dire 

and then followed a weak passage, which was 
afterward thrown out and the better lines that 
follow substituted ; but in making the change 
Keats apparently overlooked this defect. 

Line 376 et seq. Compare this passage with 
Spenser's account of the garden of Adonis in 
Faerie Queene, Book IH. canto vi. 

Lines 396, 397. 
And draperies mellow-tinted like the peach. 
Or lady peas entwined with marigolds. 

Line 400. Tenting swerve, as Keats informed a 
friend who did not at once perceive the meaning, 
is a swerve in the form of the top of a tent. 

Line 416. 
The creeper, blushing deep at Autumn's blush. 

Line 436. 
For 't is the highest reach of human honour. 

Lines 461-464. 
Who would not be so bound, but, foolish elf, 
He was content to let Divinity 
Slip through his careless arms — content to see 
An unseized heaven sighing at his feet. 

It is not easy to see why Keats should substi- 
tute ' amorous plea faint through ' for ' Divin- 
ity slip through.' 

Line 482. 
Over this paly corse, the crystal shower. 

Lines 505, 506. 
Cupids awake ! or black and blue we '11 pinch 
Your dimpled arms. 

Lines 526-533. 
Queen Venus bending downward, so o'ertaken, 
So suffering sweet, so blushing mad, so shaken 



That the wild warmth prob'd the young sleep- 
er's heart 
Enchantingly ; and with a sudden start 
His trembling arms were out in instant time 
To catch his fainting love. — O foolish rhyme, 
What mighty power is in thee that so often 
Thou strivest rugged syllables to soften 
Even to the telling of a sweet like this. 
Away ! let them embrace alone ! that kiss 
Was far too rich for thee to talk upon. 
Poor wretch I mind not those sobs and sighs ! 

begone ! 
Speak not one atom of thy paltry stuff, 
That they are met is poetry enough. 

Line 541. The finished manuscript reads dies ; 
the first edition has dyes. The former seems the 
more poetic reading, and yet the construction 
would introduce a new image rather abruptly. 

Line 578. The text reads, — 
' Thou shouldst mount up to with me. Now adieu ! ' 
But the word ' to ' so destroys both rhythm and 
sense, that I have ventured to throw it out as 
an overlooked error. 

Line 589. By throwing the emphasis strongly 
on all, the meaning of the line is made evident. 

Line 628. Keats tried massy, blackening, and 
bulging, before he settled on jutting. 

Lines 642-657. 
About her majesty, and her pale brow 
With turrets crown 'd, which forward heavily 

bow 
Weighing her chin to the breast. Four lions 

draw 
The wheels in sluggish time — each toothed 

maw 
Shut patiently — eyes hid in tawny veils — 
Drooping about their paws, and nervy tails 
Cowering their tufted brushes to the dust. 

Lines 657-660. 
To cloudborne Jove he bent: and there was 

tost 
Into his grasping hands a silken cord 
At which vrithout a single impious word 
He swung upon it off into the gloom. 

Lines 668-671. 
With airs delicious. Long he hung about 
Before his nice enjoyment coidd pick out 
The resting place : but at the last he swung 
Into the greenest cell of all — among 
Dark leaved jasmine : star flower'd and be- 

strown 
With golden moss. 

Lines 756, 757. 
Enchantress ! tell me by this mad embrace, 
By the moist languor of thy breathing face. 



POEMS 



455 



Lines 760, 761. 
These tenderest — and by the breath — the 

love 
The passion — nectar — Heaven ! — ' Jove above ! 

Line 800. 
Does Pallas self not love? she must — she 
must ! 

Lines &49, 850. 
But after the strange voice is on the wane — 
And 't is but guess'd from the departing soimd. 

Mr. Forman makes a very plausible surmise 
that Keats had a half purpose to go on with a 
fine description of this voice and he prints the 
verses that follow. They are not in the draft, 
nor in any of the annotated copies to which he 
refers, but appear in Leigh Hunt's The Indica- 
tor for 19 January, 1820. They are well worth 
preserving, since if they are not by Keats they 
must surely have been penned by some one in 
Keats's and Hunt's circle who had an extraor- 
dinary knack at imitation of Keats. 

' Oh ! what a voice is silent. It was soft 

As mountain-echoes, when the winds aloft 

(The gentle winds of summer) meet in caves ; 

Or when in sheltered places the white waves 

Are 'waken'd into music, as the breeze 

Dimples and stems the current : or as trees 

Shaking their green locks in the days of June : 

Or Delphic girls when to the maiden moon 

They sang harmonious pray'rs : or sounds that come 

(However near) like a faint distant hum 

Out of the grass, from which mysterious birth 

We guess the busy secrets of the earth. 

— Like the low voice of Syrinx, when she ran 

Into the forest from Arcadian Pan ; 

Or sad (Enone's, when she pined away 

For Paris, or (and yet 't was not so gay) 

As Helen's whisper when she came to Troy, 

Half sham'd to wander with that blooming boy. 

Like air-touch'd harps in flowery casements hung ; 

Like imto lovers' ears the wild woods sung 

In garden bowers at twilight ; like the sound 

Of Zephyr when he takes his nightly round 

In May, to see the roses all asleep : 

Or like the dim strain which along the deep 

The sea-maid utters to the sailors' ear, 

Telling of tempests, or of dangers near. 

Like Desdemona, who (when fear was strong 

Upon her soul) chaunted the willow song, 

Swan-like before she perish'd : or the tone 

Of flutes upon the waters heard alone : 

Like words that come upon the memory 

Spoken by friends departed ; or the sigh 

A gentle girl breathes when she tries to hide 

The love her eyes betray to all beside.' 

Line 880. 
And shells outswelling their faint tinged curls. 



Book III. 'Keats said with much simpli- 
city,' reports Woodhouse, ' " It will be easily 
seen what I think of the present ministers, by 
the beginning of the third Book." ' Keats may 
have had Milton and Lycidas in mind when he 
thus covertly made a poem serve as a scourge. 

Lines 31, 32. 
In the several vastnesses of air and fire '• 
And silent as a corpse upon a pyre. 

Lines 41. Keats was wont to record the date 
when he finished a book, but he wrote against 
this line, ' Oxford, Septr. 5, [1817] as if to reg- 
ister his oath and connect the opening of the 
book with the immediate time. 

Lines 56, 57. 
Thou dost bless all things — even dead thii^^s 

sip 
A midnight life from thee. 

Lines 89, 90. 
Enormous sharks from hiding-holes and fright- 

'ning 
The whale's large eyes with unaccustomed 
lightning. 

Lines 445-447. 
Their music came to my o'ersweeten'd sense 
And then I felt a hovering influence 
A breathing on my forehead. 

Lines 581-583. Great Jove, 

What fury of the three could harm this dove ? 
Dear youth ! see how I weep, hear how I sigh. 

Line 752. 
And bound it round Endymion : then stroke. 

Lines 864, 865. 
At his right hand stood winged Love, elate. 
And on his left Love's fairest mother sate. 

Lines 954-956. 
When thy bright diadem a silver gleam 
O'er blue dominion starts. Thy finny team 
Snorts in the morning light, and sends along. 

Line 979. 
Who is not full of heaven when thou hast 
smil'd? 

Book IV. 

Lines 48-54. No eyelids meet 

To twinkle on my bosom ! false ! 't was false. 
They said how beautiful I was ! Who calls 
Me now divine? Who now kneels down and 

dies 
Before me till from these enslaving eyes 
Redemption sparkles. Ah me, how sad I am ! 
Of all the poisons sent to make us mad — 
Of all death's overwhelmings.' —Stay, beware. 
Young Mountaineer ! 



456 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



Lines 76, 77. 
Sweet shadow, be distinct awhile and stay 
While I speak to thee — trust me it is true. 

Lines 85-87. 
Of passion from the heart — where love is not 
Only is solitude — poor shadow ! what 
I say thou hearest not ! away, begone 
And leave me, prythee, with my grief alone ! ' 
The Latmian lean'd his arm upon a bough, 
A wretched mortal : what can he do now ? 
Must he another Love ? O impious. 

Line 94. 
While the fair moon gives light, or rivers flow 
My adoration of thee is yet pure 
As infants prattling. How is this — why sure 
I have a triple soul. 

Line 104. 
Shut softly up alive — ye harmonies 
Ye tranced visions — ye flights ideal : 
Nothing are ye to life so dainty real. 

Lady, pity me ! 

Lines 136-138. 
Canst thou do so ? Is there no balm, no cure ? 
Could not a beckoning Hebe soon allure 
Thee into Paradise ? What sorrowing 
So weighs thee down ? what utmost woe coidd 

bring 
This madness ? — Sit thee down by me, and 

ease 
Thine heart in whispers — haply by degrees 

1 may find out some soothing medicine.' — 
' Dear Lady,' said Endyraion, ' I pine — 

I die — the tender accents thou hast spoken 
Have finish' d all — my heart is lost and broken. 

Line 154. 
The lustrous passion from a lover's eye 

Line 157. An instance of spry for spray is 
cited by Mr. Forman from Sandys's Ovid, Book 
XL, verses 498, 499. 

Line 247. 
Arch infant crews in mimic of the coil. 

Line 341. For wild the expressive wide occurs 
in the draft and printer's copy. 

Line 539. The rightful tinge of health. 

Line 700. After this line, and before the next 
these two lines appear in the finished manu- 
script, — 

' And by it shalt thou sit and sing, hey nonny ! 
While doves coo to thee for a little honey.' 

Lines 749-741. 
Me, dear Endymion, were I to weave 
My own imaginations to sweet life 
Thoii would'st o'ertop them all. 



Line 769. 
Por'd on its hazel carpet of shed leaves. 

Line 774. Hyperion apparently had already 
occurred to Keats as subject for a poem. 

Lines 811-813. 
Were this sweet damsel like a long neck'd 

crane. 
Or an old rocking barn owl half asleep, 
Some reason would there be for thee to keep 
So dull-eyed — but thou know'st she 's beauti- 
ful: 
Yes, yes ! and thou dost love her well — I '11 
pull. 

Page 110. Isabella, or the Pot op Basil. 
Stanza xxx., line 5. A manuscript variation 
is: — 

' What might have been too plainly did she see,' 

Stanza xxxv., lines 4-7, another reading : — 

' Had marr'd his glossy hair, that once could shoot 
Bright gold into the Sun, and stamp'd his doom 

Upon his soiled lips, and took the mellow Lute 
Prom his deep voice, and down past his loamed ears.' 

Stanza xxxviii., the last two lines in the man- 
uscript read : — 

* Go, shed a tear upon my heather bloom 
And I shall turn a diamond in my tomb.' 

Stanza liv., last line. Leafits seems to be a 
word of Keats's coinage. 

Stanza Ixiii. Mr. Forman in the Appendix to 
the second volume of his edition of Keats has a 
long note on the ' sad ditty ' born of the story of 
Isabella, in which he shows that the air of the 
Basil Pot song, though not now current, was 
common enough in mediaeval manuscripts and 
printed collections of popular poetry. 

Page 123. Translation from a Sonnet 

BY RONSARD. 

The following is the original : — 

' Nature, ornant Cassandre, qui deuoit 
De sa douceur forcer les plus rebelles. 
La composa de cent beautez nouuelles, 
Que des mille ans en espargne elle anoit : — 
De tous les biens qu' Amour au ciel connoit 
Comme un tresor cherement sous ses ailes, 
Elle enrichit les graces immortelles 
De son bel oeil qui les Dieux esmouuoit. — 
Du Ciel a peine elle estoit descendue 
Quand ie la vey, quand mon asme esperdue 
En dueint folle, et d'un si poignant trait, 
Amour coula ses beautez en mes veines, 
Qu'autres plaisirs ie ne sens que mes peinea 
Ny autre bien qu'adorer son portrait. 

Page 123. Sonnet : To a Lady seen for 
A Few Moments at Vauxhall. 



POEMS 



457 



The form given to this sonnet in Hood's Mag- 
azine, where it was published, AprU, 1844, va- 
ries slightly from that in Lord Houghton's pub- 
lication. The first line reads : — 

' Life's sea hath been five times at its slow ebb ' 
and the closing lines are : — 

' Other delights with thy remembering 
And sorrow to my darling joys doth bring.' 

Page 124. Fancy. 

The poem as sent by Keats to his brother and 
sister was revised when he came to include it 
in his volume, and the following are the more 
interesting variations : — 

Line 5. 
Towards heaven still spread beyond her — 

Line 10. Cloys with kissing. What do then ? 

Line 24. To banish vesper from the sky. 

Line 33. 
All the faery buds of May, 
On spring turf or scented spray ; , 

Line 57. 
And the snake all winter shrank 
Cast its skin on sunny bank ; 

Line 66. This line was followed by two after- 
ward omitted : — 

' For the same sleek-throated mouse 
To store up in its winter house.' 

Line 68. 
Every joy is spoilt by use ; 
Every pleasure, every joy 
Not a mistress but doth cloy. 
Where 's the cheek that doth not fade, 

Line 89. The following lines were dropped 
out, the two drafts agreeing again at line 90 : — 

' And Jove grew languid. Mistress fair 1 
Thou shalt have that tressed hair 
Adonis tangled all for spite ; 
And the mouth he would not kiss, 
And the treasure he would miss ; 
And the hand he would not press 
And the warmth he would distress. 

O the Ravishment — the Bliss f 
Fancy has her where she is — 
Never fulsome, never new, 
There she steps ! and tell me who 
Has a mistress so divine ? 
Be the palate ne'er so fine 
She cannot sicken. Break the mesh.' 

Page 125. Ode : Bards of Passion and of 
Mirth. 

In the copy made for George and Georgiana 
Keats are the following variations : — 



Line 19. 
But melodious truth divine, 
Philosophic numbers fine ; 

Line 23. Thus ye live on Earth, and then 

Line 30. 
To mortals of the little week 
They must sojourn with their cares 

Page 127. The Eve of St. Agnes. 
The following letter from Keats to his pub- 
lisher, John Taylor, written June 11, 1820, is 
interestmg for its textual criticism : ' In reading 
over the proof of St. Agnes's Eve since I left 
Fleet Street, I was struck with what appears to 
me an alteration in the seventh stanza very 
much for the worse. The passage I mean 
stands thus — 

" her maiden eyes incline 
Still on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
Pass by." 

'T was originally written : — 

" her maiden eyes divine 
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
Pass by." 

My meaning is quite destroyed in the alteration. 
1 do not use train for concourse of passers by, 
but for skirts sweeping along the floor. 

' In the first stanza my copy reads, second 
(sic) line : — 

" bitter chUl it was," 

to avoid the echo cold in the second line.' 
In a manuscript version, Lionel was the name 

given to the hero instead of Porphyro. 
Page 134. Ode on a Grecian Urn. 
Line 9. Both in the original manuscript and 

in the Annals the line reads : — 

' What love ? what dance ? what struggle to escape ? ' 

Line 16. The Annals reading is : — 

*Thy song, nor ever bid the spring adieu.' 

a line which had no rhyme and very likely was 
transferred by mistake from the next stanza. 

Line 34. The manuscript reads sides for 
flanks. 

Page 139. La Belle Dame sans Merci. 

The text given is that of The Indicator, but 
Lord Houghton, when reprinting the poem in 
Life, Letters and Literary Remains used another 
form apparently. The variations below are 
from Lord Houghton's copy. 

Line 1. what can ail thee, knight-at-arms 

Line 3. 
The sedge has wither'd from the lake. 



458 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



Line 5. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms. 

Line 19. 

' For sidelong would she bend, and aing.' 

stanzas v. and vi. are transposed. 

Line 30. 
And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore. 

Line 32. With kisses four. 

Line 33. And there she lulled me asleep 

The version sent to George and Georgiana 
Keats agrees, with but triiiing variation, with 
that given by Lord Houghton. 

Page 140. Chorus of Faeries. 

In Lord Houghton's version this is called 
Song of Four Fairies. There is one variation 
to be noted in line 46, where he reads, 
' Beyond the nimble-wheeled quest.' 

Page 142. On Fame. 

The copy sent by Keats to his brother and 
sister shows these variations. 

Line?. 
As if a clear Lake meddling with itself 
Should cloud its clearness with a muddy gloom. 

Line 14. 
Spoil his salvation by a fierce miscreed. 

Page 142. To Sleep. 

In line 8, Lord Houghton's copy reads lulling 
for dewy which is found in a manuscript of Sir 
Charles Dilke. In another draft of twelve lines 
by Keats which was copied in The Athenceum, 
October 26, 1872, the first three lines are the 
same as printed ; the next nine are as follows : 

' As wearisome as darkness is divine 
O soothest sleep, if so it please thee close 

My willing eyes in midst of this thine hymn 
Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws 

Its sweet death dews o'er every pulse and limb — 
Then shut the hushed Casket of my soul 

And turn the key round in the oiled wards 
' And let it rest until the morn has stole. 

Bright tressed from the grey east's shuddering 
bourn.' 

Page 142. Ode to Psyche. 

The copy sent by Keats to his brother and 
sister varies from that printed in the 1820 vol- 
ume in at least one important particular, and it 
is not quite clear why Keats, when he substi- 
tuted roof for fan in line 10, did not mend the 
rhyme also. In line 14 the copy in the letter 
reads Syrian. 

Page 146. Lamia. 

The manuscript copy, presumably the one 
given to the printer, is in existence, and Mr. For- 
man notes amongst others the following read- 
ings, changed apparently in the proof. 



Part I. line 48. 
Cerulean spotted, golden-green, and blue. 

Line 69. 
I had a silver dream of thee last night. 

Line 78. 
And, swiftly as a mission'd phoebean dart. 

Line 104. Pale wox her immortality for woe 

Line 114. 
Warm, tremulous, devout, bright-ton'd, psalte- 

rian. 
Ravish'd, she lifted up her Circean head. 

Line 132. 
To the swoon'd serpent, and with langrous arm. 

Line 155, 
A deep volcanian yellow took the place. 

Line 167. 
And her new voice, softluting in the air 
Cried ' Lycius ! gentle Lycius, where, ah where ! 

Line 185. 
Ah ! never heard of, delight never known 
Save of one happy mortal ! only one, — 
Lycius the happy : for she was a Maid. 

Line 260. A line was added to this, — 

' Thou to Elysium gone, here for the vultures I.' 

Line 378, A royal-squared lofty portal door. 

Part II., line 45. Two lines were here 
added : — 

' Too fond was I believing, fancy fed 
In high deliriums, and bloBsoma never shed ! ' 

Lines 82-84. 
Became herself a flame — 't was worth an age 
Of minor joys to revel in such rage. 
She was persuaded, and she fixt the hour 
When he should make a Bride of his fair Para- 
mour. 
After the hottest day comes languidest 
The colour'd Eve, half-hidden in the west ; 
So they both look'd, so spake, if breathed 

sound. 
That almost silence is, hath ever found 
Compare with nature's quiet. Which lov'd 

most. 
Which had the weakest, strongest heart so lost, 
So ruin'd, wreek'd, destroy'd : for certes they 
Scarcely could tell they could not guess 
Whether 't was misery or happiness. 
Spells are but made to break. Whisper'd the 
Youth. 

Line 174. 
Fill'd with light, music, jewels, gold, perfume. 



LETTERS 



459 



Line 231. In Tom Taylor's Autobiography of 
Haydon, vol. i. p. 354, is a passage which is a 
slight comment on these lines, ' He then, in a 
strain of humor beyond description, abused me 
for putting Newton's head into my picture. " A 
fellow," said he, " who believed nothing unless 
it was as clear as three sides of a triangle." 
And then he and Keats agreed he had destroyed 
all the beauty of the rainbow, by reducing it to 
the prismatic colors. It was impossible to re- 
sist him, and we aU drank Newton's health and 
confusion to mathematics.' 

Line 293. 
From Lycius answer'd, as he sunk supine 
Upon the couch where Lamia's beauties pine. 

Line 296. ' from every iU 

That youth might suffer have I shielded thee 
Up to this very hour, and shall I see 
Thee married to a Serpent ? Pray you mark, 
Corinthians ! A Serpent, plain and stark ! ' 

At the close of the poem, Keats appended 
the passage from Burton which had given him 
his theme : — 

' Philostratos, in his fourth book, de Vita 
Apollonii, hath a memorable instance in this 
kind, which I may not omit, of one Menippus 
Lycius, a young man twenty-five years of age 
that, going betwixt Cenclireas and Corinth, met 
such a phantasm in the habit of a fair gentle- 
woman, which, taking him by the hand, carried 
him home to her house, in the suburbs of Cor- 
inth, and told him she was a Phoenician by 
birth, and if he woidd tarry with her, he should 
hear her sing and play, and drink such wine as 
never any drank, and no man should molest 
him ; but she, being fair and lovely, woidd die 
with him, that was fair and lovely to behold. 
The young man, a philosopher, otherwise staid 
and discreet, able to moderate his passions, 
though not this of love, tarried with her awhile 
to his great content, and at last married her, to 
whose wedding, amongst other guests, came 
ApoUonius ; who, by some probable conjec- 
tures, found her out to be a serpent, a lamia ; 
and that all her furniture was, like Tantalus' 
gold, described by Homer, no substance, but 
mere illusions. When she saw herself descried, 
she wept, and desired Apollouius to be sUent, 
but he would not be moved, and thereupon she, 
plate, house, and all that was in it, vanished in 
an instant ; many thousands took notice of this 
fact, for it was done in the midst of Greece.' — 
Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, Part III., Sect. 
2, Memb. I. Subs. I. 

Page 199. Hyperion. 



Since the introductory note to this poem was 
printed, a letter from Canon Ainger has ap- 
peared in The Athenceum (26 August, 1899), in 
which he states that he has seen a copy of the 
1820 volimie, given by Keats to a Hampstead 
friend and neighbor, and bearing on the title 
page 'with J, Keats's compliments.' He adds, 
' Keats has with his own hand scored out, in 
strong ink lines, the publisher's preface. . . . At 
the head of this preface Keats has written, " I 
had no part in this; I was ill at the time." 
And after the concluding sentence about Endy- 
mion, which he has carefully bracketed off, he 
has written, " This is a lie ! " ' This is inter- 
esting testimony, especially if Canon Ainger's 
opinion as to this being in Keats's handwriting 
is correct. 

Page 232. The Last Sonnet. 

A manuscript reading of the last line is : — 

' Half -passionless, and so swoon on to death.' 



II. LETTERS 

1. Page 235. ' God 'ield you.' Mr. Colvin 
calls attention to the frequency with which 
Keats, in his early letters, falls into Shake- 
spearian phrases. 

2. Page 255. ' Endymion.' The reference 
is not to the poem of that name, but to the 
verses beginning ' I stood tiptoe upon a little 
hill.' Seep. 14. 

3. Page 235. ' Your kindness.' Reynolds 
had addressed Keats in a sonnet as follows : — 

'Thy thoughts, dear Keats, are like fresh gathered 
leaves, 

Or white flowers pluck'd from some sweet lily bed ; 

They set the heart a-breathing, and they shed 
The glow of meadows, mornings, and spring eves 
O'er the excited soul. — Thy genius weaves 

Songs that shall make the age be nature-led, 

And win that coronal for thy young head 
Which time's strange hand of freshness ne'er bereaves. 
Go on ! and keep thee to thine own green way, 

Singing in that same key which Chaucer sung ; 
Be thou companion of the summer day, 

Roaming the fields and older woods among : 
So shall thy Muse be ever in her May, 

And thy luxuriant spirit ever young.' 

4. Page 257. 'Aunt Dinah's counterpane.' 
The letter was crossed, after a fashion more 
common in days of heavy postage than now. 

5. Page 259. Hazlitt had reviewed in The 
Examiner for May 4, 1817, Southey's Letter to 
William Smith Esq., M. P., and had been ex- 
cessively severe. 



460 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



6. Page 259, ' The Nymplis.' A mythologi- 
cal poem, on which Hunt was at this time en- 
gaged. 

7. Page 259. ' Does Shelley go on telling 
strange stories of the death of kings ? ' Gilfil- 
lan, in his Gallery of Literary Portraits, tells the 
story of Shelley amusing himself and Hunt, 
when they were travelling in a stage coach, and 
startling an old lady travelling with them, by 
suddenly crying out to Hunt, ' For God's sake, 
let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories 
of the death of kings.' King Richard II., iii. 2. 

8. Page 261. ' I long to see Wordsworth's as 
well as to have mine in.' Haydon was painting 
his Christ's Entry into Jerusalem, and was in- 
troducing likenesses of his friends into the pic- 
ture. 

9. Page 262. ' Bertrand,' i. e.. General Ber- 
trand, who was one of Bonaparte's petty court 
at St. Helena. 

10. Page 263. Jane Reynolds afterward 
married Thomas Hood. The Reynolds family 
lived in Little Britain, so quaintly sketched by 
Washington Irving. 

11. Page 263. 'Hampton,' i. e.. Little Hamp- 
ton, a quiet watering place at the mouth of the 
Arun, on the south coast of Sussex, a little 
more than halfway between London and Ports- 
mouth. 

12. Page 265. 'Miss Taylor's essays in 
Rhyme.' Fanny Keats was fourteen years old 
at this time, and the Norwich ladies, Ann and 
Jane Taylor, were in the height of their popu- 
larity with young readers. 

13. Page 266. 'Tell DUke.' The Dilkes 
were friends living in Hampstead whom Rey- 
nolds had introduced to Keats. Charles Went- 
worth DUke was at the time a clerk in the 
Navy Pay-Offiee, and a disciple of Godwin and 
warm friend of Hunt. Later he became a 
man of great consequence in the literary world 
as editor and chief owner of The Athceneum. 
The W. D. mentioned below is William Dilke, 
a younger brother, who had served in the Com- 
missariat department. He was at this time 
about forty-two years old. 

14. Page 268. ' Northern Poet.' See Words- 
worth's Personal Talk, beginning — 

' I am not one who much or oft delight 
To season my fireside with personal talk.' 

15. Page 269. Hazlitt had just collected and 
published his The Round Table, which he first 
printed in The Examiner. 

16. Page 271. ' You and Gleig.' Mr. Col- 
vin makes this note : ' G. R. Gleig, son of the 
Bishop of Stirling : bom 1796, died 1888 : served 



in the Peninsular War and afterwards took 
ders. Chaplain-General to the Forces fro 
1846 to 1875 : author of the Subaltern and man; 
military tales and histories.' 

17. Page 271. 'The two R's.' Reynolds 
and Rice. 

18. Page 274. ' The little Song.' See head- 
note to ' Lines,' p. 37. The allusion just below 
in Adam's waking is to Paradise Lost, Book 
VIIL, lines 478-484. 

19. Page 275. 'Christie.' Jonathan H. 
Christie, a college friend of Lockhart, who took 
up Lockhart's quarrel with John Scott, fougl 
the latter in a duel and killed him. 

20. Page 277. ' Wells.' Charles J, Wells, ? 
schoolmate of Tom Keats. See the Sonne* 
p. 13, ' To a Friend who sent me some Roses 
The family of Wells lived in Featherstoi 
Buildings, from which Letter 24 was written 

21. Page 277. ' Shelley's poem.' Laon an 
Cynthia, renamed The Revolt of Islam. 

22. Page 277. The tragedy was Retributiou 
or the Chieftain's Daughter; the pantomimf 
was Don Giovanni. The articles, as the post 
script to this letter shows, did appear in Thi 
Champion. 

23. Page 278. ' We played a concert.' A ' 
burlesque affair. Keats, his brothers and 
friends, were wont to entertain themselves with 
imitating musical instruments, vocally. 

24. Page 278. Haydon's Autobiography, I. 
384, gives a more detailed account of this sup- 
per party. Ritchie, here referred to, Mr. Col- 
vin tells us, was Joseph Ritchie, who ' started 
on a Government mission to Fezzan in Septem- 
ber, 1818, and died at Morzouk the following 
November, An account of the expedition wf-yS 
piiblished by his travelling companion. Captain 
G. F. Lyon, R. N.' Ritchie wrote a poetical 
Farewell to England, which was printed by A, 
A. Watts in his Poetical Album. 

25. Page 278. ' Medal of the Princess,' i. c. 
Princess Charlotte, who died November 6, 1817. 

26. Page 278, ' Bob Harris,' the manager of 
Covent Garden Theatre. 

27. Page 279. ' Miss Kent's.' Mr. Forma 
notes that the article was not by Miss Bess ' 
Kent, Hunt's sister-in-law, but by Shelley, wl ^ 
used the initials E. K. for ' Elfin Knight.' « 

28. Page 279. 'Mr. Abbey.' Mr. Richai R 
Abbey, a tea-merchant, one of the guardians c 
the Keats family. See above, p. xv. } 

29. Page 283. See a lively refutation of th J 
conjecture of Hunt's, and a general statemei i 
of the relations of the ' Cockney school ' wit 
the Edinburgh critics in Lang's The Life an 
Letters of John Gibson Lockhart, 1. 150-155. 



LETTERS 



l6: 



30. Page 285. ' As the old song says.' Mr. 
irinan here quotes the ' old song,' which is 

Sharing Eve's Apple,' given in the Appendix, 
p. 248, on Mr. Forman's authority as by Keats. 
Mr. Colvin merely indicates a break. It is 
quite possible that Keats in the jesting mood 
with which his letter opens, wrote these non- 
sense lines and, in Scott's fashion, palmed them 
off as an ' old song.' 

31. Page 285. 'For the sum of twopence.' 
See the head-note to ' Robin Hood,' p. 41. 

32. Page 287. ' Mr. Robinson.' Henry Crabbe 
'^.obinson. This delightful diarist does not re- 

)rd this visit, nor in the two or three refer- 
iEces to Keats speak as if he knew him. In an 

ntry for December 8, 1820, he records reading 
me of Keats's poems, and adds : ' There are a 
rce, wildness, and originality in the works of 
is young poet which, if his perilous journey 
Italy does not destroy him, promise to place 

'.m at the head of the next generation of poets.' 

33. Page 293. Haydon had written with en- 
^iiusiasm about a seal with a true lover's knot 

nd the initials W. S., found in a field at Strat- 
ord-on-Avon. 

34. Page 293. ' Dentatus ' was the subject 
)f a picture by Haydon. 

35. Page 295. ' Claude's Enchanted Castle.' 
Vir. Colvin has this interesting note : ' The fa- 
nous picture now belonging to Lady Wantage, 
ind exhibited at Burlington House in 1888. 
Whether Keats ever saw the original is doubt- 
ful (it was not shown at the British Institution 
in his time), but he must have been familiar 
with the subject as engraved by Vivar^s and 
Woollett, and its suggestive power worked in 
his mind until it yielded at last the distilled 
poetic essence of the " magic casement " pas- 
sage in the "Ode to a Nightingale." It is in- 
teresting to note the theme of the Grecian Urn 
ode coming in also amidst the " unconnected 
lubject and careless verse" of this rhymed 
epistle.' 

36. Page 296. ' Posthumous works.' Hay- 
'on had written Keats : ' Wlien I die I '11 have 

'lakespeare placed on my heart, with Homer 

my right hand and Ariosto in the other, 

inte at my head, Tasso at my feet, and Cor- 

• ille under my — .' 

' 37. Page .300. ' Worsted stockings.' Keats 

■ nts at the neighborhood of the. tliiliren of the 
ostman Bentley, at whose house in Wellwalk 

' lodged. 

' 38. Page 306. ' Th.> opnosite,' i. e., a leaf 
th the name and ' from tlie Aut}ior.' 
39. Page 315. 'A scrap of paper.' The book 
as a copy of ' Enciymion,' and Kea. had left 



in London a scrap of paper bearing 'f \,il. da 
Author,' to be pasted in. 

40. Page 316. ' The Swan and two necks ' 
was the name of the coach office in Lad Lane, 
London. 

41. Page 320. ' 3 little volumes.' The sev- 
eral references to these books indicate Gary's 
Translation of Dante, which was so publishec 
by Taylor and Hessey and advertised on th( 
fly-leaf of ' Endymion.' 

42. Page 328. 'A Woman.' Mr. Colvia 
notes : ' Miss Charlotte Cox, an East Indian 
cousin of the Reynoldses — the "Charmian" 
described more fully ' in Letter 74. 

43. Page 328. 'Slip-shod Endymion.' John 
Scott wrote of the poem in The Morriitg 
Chronicle, October 3, 1818: 'That tliere are 
also many, very many passages indicating both 
haste and carelessness I will not deny ; nay, I 
wUl go further, and assert that a real f ieud of 
the author would have dissuaded hira froia 
immediate publication.' 

44. Page 338. ' I have scarce any tapes of 
him.' Thomas Keats died a few hom^ later, 
on the same day this letter was writt in. As 
noted in the biographical sketch, Keats now re- 
moved to Went worth Place. 

45. Page 339. 'This thin paper.' Mr. Oolvii 
notes : ' A paper of the largest folio size, u.se( 
by Keats in this letter only, and coilainin; 
some eight hundred words a page of his v. i iting. 

46. Page 340. ' Her daughter senior.' Faun 
Brawne, of whom this is the first mention j 

the letters. ^ 

47. Page 354. 'Henrietta Street,' tlie res 
dence of Mrs. Wylie. 

48. Page .^55. ' The silk tassels,' Mr. ' ^olv' 
explains, were the gift of Georgiana Ke; '?. \': 

49. Page 366. ' Am I all wound \vith B >> 
Mr. Colvin reminds the reader of the o i 
the phrase in Caliban's mouth : 

' Sometimes am I 
All wound with adders, who with cloven toi rcuc;, 
Do hiss me into madness.' 

The Httle Brown boys, brothers of Tharll 
Armitage Brown, are the 'Boys' refeired | 
above, p- 364. | 

50. Page 368. This discreet notice ot Re- 
nolds's parody appeared with some aiv-i.-^ti \ 
in The Examiner, April 26, 1819. 

51. Page 378. James Elmes was the edit^ 
of Annals of the Fine Arts, in which fi-st ak 
peared the ' Ode to a Nightingale.' See p. 145 

52. Page 383. ' An oriental tale of a veir 
beautiful color.' Mr. Forman, on the aut 'lorii 
of Dr. Reinhold Kiihler, Librarian of the ( r iui' 



,6'. 



NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



uoal ,T ibrary of Weimar, identifies the story, 
,-Ii? 't ; a variant of the Third Calender's story 
; f irabian Nights, as the ' Histoire de la 

1 i ,= i ,' in the Nouveaux Contes Orientaux 
' ti ' 'mte de Caylus. 

3;!. i ge399. ' Hunt's triumphal entry into 
jQuJon. Mr. Forman makes the following 
ote or. dhis passage : ' Henry Hunt, of Man- 
hest' I vlassacre fame, ended an imprisonment 
i two ears and a half on the 30th of October, 
. , made an ' ' entry into London ' ' on the 

*„h vi i^ovember, 1822 ; but the trial of which 
is iiDpriyonment was the issue had not taken 
lace iiU the spring of 1820; and the entry 
lluded io by Keats was one which took place 
btweea the massacre and the trial.' 



54. Page 413. ' From Sr. G. B,'s, Lord Ms.' 
Sir George Beaumonts and Lord Musgraves. 

55. Page 416. ' The Cave of despair.' Spen- 
ser's Cave of Despair was the subject of the 
picture (see Letter 141) with which Severn won 
the Royal Academy premium. 

56. Page 438. ' Lucy Vaughan Lloyd.» The 
name under which Keats proposed to publish 
' The Cap and Bells.' See p. 216. 

57. Page 446. ' Without making any way.' 
Mr. Colvin appends this note : ' The Maria 
Crowther had in fact sailed from London, Sep- 
tember 18 : contrary winds holding her in 
the Channel, Keats had landed at Portsmouth 
for a night's visit to the Snooks of Bedhamp- 
ton.' 



I 



I 



BIBLIOGRAPHICAL LIST OF KEATS'S POEMS 



In this list the contents are given in their 
order of the three volumes published by Keats. 
Then follow the poems gathered by Lord 
Houghton, and those printed for the first time 
in the Letters, collected by Mr. Forman, Mr. 
Colvin, and Mr. Speed. The few instances of 
independent periodical publication of poems, 
and of those gathered by Mr. Forman, are 
noted in the head-notes to those poems. 

I. Poems, | by | John Keats. | ' What more 

FELICITY CAN FALL TO CREATURE, | THAN 
TO ENJOY DELIGHT WITH LIBERTY ' | 

Fate of the Butterfly. — Spenser. | Lon- 
don: I printed for C. & J. Ollier, 
3 Welbeck Street, | Cavendish Square. 
I 1817. 
Dedication. To Leigh Hunt, esq. 
' I stood tip-toe upon a little hill.' 
Specimen of an Induction to a Poem. 
Calidore. A Fragment. 
To Some Ladies. 

Cii reoeiving a curious shell, and a Copy of 
Verses from the same Ladies. 

To . [Hadst thou liv'd in days of old] . 

To Hope. 

Imitation of Spenser. 

' Woman ! when I behold thee flippant, vain„' 
Epistles : 
To George Felton Mathew. 
To my Brother George. 
To Charles Cowden Clarke. 
Sonnets : 

I. To my Brother Geoi^e. 

II. To [' Had I a man's fair form, then 

might my sighs.'] 
III. Written on the day that Mr. Leigh 

Hunt left prison. 
rV. 'How many bards gild the lapses of 
time.' 
V. To a Friend who sent me some roses. 
VI. ToG. A. W. 

VII. ' O Solitude, if I must with thee dwell.' 
VIII. To my Brothers. 
IX. * Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here 

and there.' 
X. ' To one who has been long in city 
pent.' 



XI. On first Looking into Chapman's 
Homer. 
XII. On leaving some friends at an early 
hour. 

XIII. Addressed to Haydon. 

XIV. Addressed to the same. 

XV. On the Grasshopper and Cricket. 
XVI. To Kosciusko. 
XVII. ' Happy is England.' 
Sleep and Poetry. 

II. Endymion: I A poetic Romance. | By 
John Keats. | ' The stretched metre 

of AN ANTIQUE SONG.' | LONDON : | PRINTED 

FOR Taylor and Hessey, | 93, Fleet 
Street, | 1818. 

III. Lamia | Isabella, | The Eve of St. 
Agnes, | and other Poems. | By John 
Keats, | author of Endymion. | London: 

I Printed for Taylor and Hessey, | 
Fleet Street | 1820. 
Lamia. 

Isabella ; or the Pot of Basil. 
The Eve of St. Agnes. 
Ode to a Nightingale. 
Ode on a Grecian Urn. 
Ode to Psyche. 
Fancy. 

Ode [' Bards of Passion and of Mirth']. 
Lines on the Mermaid Tavern. 
Robin Hood. To a Friend. 
To Autumn. 
Ode on Melancholy. 
Hyperion : a Fragment. 

IV. Life, Letters and Literary Re- 
mains of John Keats. Edited by Rich- 
ard MONCKTON MiLNES [AFTERWARD 

Lord Houghton]. 

[The following were incorporated in the bio- 
graphical portion.] 
To Spenser. 
To Chatterton. 
To Byron. 

On seeing the Elgin Marbles. 
To Haydon, with the above. 
On seeing a lock of Milton's Hair. 
A Draught of Sunshine. 
What the Thrush said. 



464 



BIBLIOGRAPHICAL LIST OF KEATS'S POEMS 



On sitting down to read King Lear once again. 

To the Nile. 

Epistle to John Hamilton Reynolds. 

Fragment of an Ode to Maia. 

On visiting the Tomb of Burns. 

Written in the Cottage where Burns was bom. 

Meg Merrilies. 

On Ailsa Rock. 

Lines written in the Highlands after a visit to 

Burns's cottage. 
At Fingal's Cave. 
Written upon the top of Ben Nevis. 
A Prophecy : To George Keats in America. 
Translation from a Sonnet of Ronsard. 
Spenserian stanzas on Charles Armitage Brown. 
Spenserian stanza written at the end of Canto 

II. Book V. of The Faerie Queene. 
Fragments : 

' Where 's the Poet ? show him ! show him ! ' 

Modern Love. 

The Castle Builder. 

* Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow.' 

Ode to Fanny. 

[The following were grouped in the section 
Literary Remains] : — 

Otho the Great. 

King Stephen. 

The Cap and Bells. 

Ode to Apollo. 

Hymn to Apollo. 

On : ' Think not of it, sweet one, so.' 

Lines : ' Unfelt, unheard, unseen.' 

Song : ' Hush, hush ! tread softly.' 

Song : ' I had a dove and the sweet dove 
died.' 

Faery song : ' Shed no tear ! O, shed no 
tear.' 

Song : ' Spirit here that reignest.' 

Faery song: ' Ah ! woe is me.' 

Extracts from an Opera. 

La Belle Dame sans Merci. 

Song of Four Faeries. 

Ode on Indolence. 



The Eve of St. Mark. 

To Fanny : ' Physician Nature ! let my spirit 

blood.' 
Stanzas : ' In a drear-nighted December.' 
Sonnets : 

' Oh, how I love on a fair summer's eve-' 

' To a Young Lady who sent me a laurel 

crown.' 
' After dark vapours have oppress'd our 

plains.' 
Written on the Blank space at the end of 

Chaucer's Tale of The Floure and the Lefe. 
On the Sea. 

On Leigh Hunt's poem The Story of Rimini. 
' When I have fears that I may cease to be-' 
To Homer. 

Written in answer to a sonnet. 
To J. H. Reynolds. 
To : ' Time's sea hath been five years 

at its slow ebb.' 
To Sleep. 
On Fame. 
Another on Fame. 
' Why did I laugh to-night ? ' 
A Dream, after reading Dante's Episode of 

Paolo and Francesca. 
' If by dull rhymes our English miust be 

chain' d.' 
' The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone.' 
' I cry your mercy — pity — love ! — aye, love.' 
The Last Sonnet. 
V. The Letters of John Keats : 
Acrostic : Georgiana Augusta Wylie. 
At Teignmouth. 
Mrs. Cameron and Ben Nevis. 
The Devon Maid. 
A Little Extempore. 
The Gadfly. 
The Human Seasons. 
To Thomas Keats. 
A Party of Lovers. 
A Song about Myself. 
Two or Three Posies. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



After dark vapours have oppress'd our plains, 

36. 
Ah ! ken ye what I met the day, 245. 
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, 139. 
Ah ! woe is me ! poor silver wing ! 141. 
All gentle folks who owe a grudge, 245. 
And what is love ? It is a doll dress'd up, 238. 
As from the darkening gloom a silver dove, 12. 
As Hermes once took to his feathers light, 138. 
As late I rambled in the happy fields, 13. 
Asleep ! sleep a little while, white pearl ! 

240. 
A thing of beauty is a joy forever, 49. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 125. 

Blue ! 'T is the life of heaven, — the domain, 43. 

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art, 

232. 
Brother belov'd, if health shall smile again, 252. 
Byron ! how sweetly sad thy melody ! 2. 

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, 1. 
Cat ! who has[t] pass'd thy grand climacteric, 

252. 
Chief of organic numbers, 39. 
Come hither aU sweet maidens soberly, 38. 

Dear Reynolds ! as last night I lay in bed, 241. 
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale, 199, 

Ever let th6 Fancy roam, 124. 

Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel, 110. 

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy, 

142. 
Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they 

> ,. e, 233. 
F'li, jasons fill the measure of the year, 44. 
Fre morning gusts have blown away all 
7. 
. any a dreary hour have I past, 24. 

le a golden pen and let me lean, 9. 

ne your patience, sister, while I frame, 

: '1 . and loveliness have pass'd away, 37. 
: i ( f the golden-bow, 7. 
i"i Kosciuszko, thy great name alone, 34. 
t<^at spirits now on earth are sojourning, 33. 



Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs, 

26. 
Hadst thou liv'd in days of old, 11. 

Happy, happy glowing fire ! 140. 
Happy is England ! I could be content, 35. 
Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem, 4. 
Haydon ! forgive me that I cannot speak, 36. 
Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid, 121. 
He is to weet a melancholy Carle, 250. 
Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port, 242. 
Here all the summer could I stay, 242. 
Highmindedness, a jealousy for good, 33. 
How fever'd is the man, who cannot look, 142. 
How many bards gUd the lapses of time ! 8. 
Hush, hush ! tread softly ! hush, hush, my 
dear! 120. 

I cry your mercy — pity — love ! — aye, love, 215. 
If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd, 

144. 
If shame can on a soldier's vein-swoll'n front, 

192. 
I had a dove and the sweet dove died, 125. 
In a drear-nighted December, 34. 
In after-time, a sage of mickle lore, 9. 
In midmost Ind, beside Hydaspes cool, 216. 
In the wide sea there lives a forlorn wretch, 89. 
In thy western halls of gold, 6. 
I stood tiptoe upon a little hUl, 14. 
It keeps eternal whisperings around, 37. 

Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there, 

8. 
King of the stormy sea, 93. 

Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry, 27. 

Many the wonders I this day have seen, 26. 
Mother of Hermes ! and still youthful Maia, 

119. 
Much have I traveU'd in the realms of gold, 9. 
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains, 

144. 
My spirit is too weak — mortality, 36. 

Nature withlield Cassandra in the skies, 123. 
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist, 126. 
Not Aladdin magian, 122. 
No ! those days are gone away, 41. 



466 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



Now morning from her orient chamber came, 1. 
Nymph of the downward smile and sidelong 
glance, 34. 

O Arethusa, peerless nymph ! why fear, 77. 

O blush not so 1 blush not so, 248. 

O Chatterton ! how very sad thy fate, 2. 

O come Georgiana ! the rose is full blown, 240. 

Of late two dainties were before me plac'd, 246. 

Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning, 30. 

O Goddess ! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung, 

143. 
O golden-tongued Komance, with serene lute ! 

40. 
Oh ! how I love, on a fair summer's eve, 13. 
Oh, I am f righten'd with most hateful thoughts, 

240. 
Old Meg she was a Gipsy, 243. 
One morn before me were three figures seen, 

136. 
O soft embalmer of the still midnight, 142. 
O Solitude ! if I must with thee dwell, 12. 
O Sorrow, 96. 

O that a week could be an age, and we, 44. 
O thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind, 

43. 
O thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hang, 

52. 
O ! were I one of the Olympian twelve, 239. 

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes, 

251. 
Physician Nature ! let my spirit blood ! 137. 

Bead me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud, 
123. 

St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! 127. 
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 213. 
Shed no tear — O shed no tear, 141. 
Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid 

coals, 33. 
So, I am safe emerged from these broils ! 159. 
Sou of the old moon-mountains African ! 41 
Souls of Poets dead and gone, 40. 
Spenser ! a jealous honourer of thine, 42. 
Spirit here that reignest ! 42. 
Standing aloof in giant ignorance, 119. 
Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, 

10. 



The church bells toll a melancholy round, 35. 

The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone, 214. 

The Gothic looks solemn, 252. 

The poetry of earth is never dead, 35. 

There is a charm in footing slow across a silent 

plain, 246. 
There was a naughty Boy, 244. 
The stranger lighted from his steed, 240. 
The sun, with his great eye, 239. 
The Town, the churchyard, and the setting sun, 

120. 
Think not of it, sweet one, so, 38. 
This mortal body of a thousand days, 122. 
This pleasant tale is like a little copse, 36. 
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, 135. 
Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb, 

124. 
'Tis the witching time of night, 249. 
To-night I'll have my friar — let me think, 

239. 
To one who has been long in city pent, 13. 
Two or three Posies, 251. 

Unfelt, unheard, unseen, 38. 

Upon a Sabbath-day it fell, 196. 

Upon a time, before the faery broods, 146. 

Upon my Life, Sir Nevis, I am piqued, 247. 

Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow, 42. 

What can I do to drive away, 214. 

What is more gentle than a wind in summer ? 18. 

What though, for showing truth to fiatter'd 
state, 5. 

What though, while the wonders of nature ex- 
ploring, 3. 

When by my solitary hearth I sit, 5. 

When I have fears that I may cease to be, 39. 

When they were come into the Faery's Court, 
249. 

When wedding fiddles are a-playing, 240. 

Where be ye going, you Devon maid ? 243. 

Where 's the Poet ? show him ! show him, 238. 

Who loves to peer up at the morning sun, 39. 

Who, who from Dian's feast would be away ? 
102. 

Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will tell, 
137. 

Woman ! when I behold thee flippant, vain, 2. 

Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake, 28. 



INDEX OF TITLES 



[The titles of major works and general divisions are set in small capitals.] 



Acrostic : Georgiana Augusta Wylie, 243. 
Addressed to Benjamin Robert Haydon, 33. 
' Ah ! woe is me ! poor silver-wing ! ' 141. 
Ailsa Rock, To, 121. 
Apollo, Hymn to, 7. 

" Ode to, 6. 
' Asleep ! O sleep a little while, white pearl ! ' 

240. 
At Fingal's Cave, 122. 
At Teignmouth, 242. 
Autumn, To, 213. 

Bagpipe, on hearing the, and seeing The 

Stranger, 246. 
' Bards of Passion and of Mirth,' 125. 
Beaumont and Fletcher's Works, Song written 

on a blank page in, 42. 
Belle Dame Sans Merci, La, 139. 
Ben Nevis, Mrs. Cameron and, 247. 

" Written upon the top of, 123. 

Brawne, Fanny, Verses to, 214. 
Brother George, To my, 26. 
Brothers, To my, 33. 
Brown, Charles Armitage, Spenserian Stanzas 

on, 250. 
Burns, On visiting the tomb of, 120. 
Byron, To, 2. 

Calidore : a Fragment, 28. 

Cameron, Mrs., and Ben Nevis, 247. 

Cap and Bells, The, 216. 

' Castle Builder, The,' Fragment of, 239. 

Cat, To a, 252. 

Chapman's Homer, On first looking into, 9. 

Chatterton, To, 2. 

Chaucer's Tale of The Floure and the Lefe, 

Written on the blank space at the end of, 36. 
Chorus of Faeries, 140. 
Clarke, Charles Cowden, Epistle to, 30. 
Cottage where Bums was bom, written in the, 

121. 
Curious Shell and a copy of verses from the 

same ladies. On receiving a, 4. 

Daisy's Song, 239. 
Death, On, 1. 
Devon Maid, The, 243. 
Dramas, 138. 



Draught of Sunshine, A, 242. 
Dream, A, after reading Dante's Episode of 
Paolo and Francesea, 138. 

Early Poems, 1. 

Elgin Marbles, on seeing the, 36. 

Endymion, 45. 

Epistles : 

To Charles Cowden Clarke, 30. 

To George Felton Mathew, 9. 

To John Hamilton Reynolds, 240. 

To my Brother George, 24. 
Eve of St. Agnes, The, 127. 
Eve of St. Mark, The, 196. 
Eve's Apple, Sharing, 248. 
Extempore, A Little, 249. 
Extracts from an Opera, 239. 

Faery Songs, 141. 
Fairies, Chorus of, 140. 
Fame, On, 142. 
Fame, Another On, 142. 
Familiar Verses, 240. 
Fancy, 124. 
Fanny, Lines to, 214. 
" Ode to, 137. 
" To, 215. 
Fingal's Cave, At, 122. 
FoUy's Song, 240. 
Fragments : 

Extracts from an Opera, 239. 

Modem Love, 238. 

Of an Ode to Maia, 119. 

The Castle Builder, 239. 

'Welcome joy and welcome sorrow,' 42. 

' Where 's the Poet ? show him ! show him ! ' 
238. 
Friend, To a, who sent me some roses, 13. 

Gadfly, The, 245. 

G, A. W., To, 34. 

George, Epistle to my brother, 24. 

Geoi^e, To my brother, 26. 

Grasshopper and the Cricket, On the, 35. 

Grecian Urn, Ode on a, 134. 

Haydon, Benjamin Robert, Addressed to, 33. 
Haydon, To, 36. . 



468 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Highlands, Lines written in the, after a visit to 

Burns's country, 246. 
Homer, To, 119. 
Hope, To, 5. 

Human Seasons, The, 44. 
Hunt, Leigh, To, 37. 
Hunt, Mr. Leigh, left prison, written on the day 

that, 5. 
Hunt's, Leigh, Poem, The Story of Bimini, On, 

38. 
Hymn to Apollo, 7. 
Hypekion : A Fragment, 198. 
Hyperion : A Vision, 233. 

Imitation of Spenser, 1. 

Tn Answer to a Sonnet by J. H, Reynolds, 43, 

Indolence, Ode on, 135. 

Induction to a Poem, specimen of an, 27. 

Isabella, or the Pot of Basil, 110. 

' I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,' 14. 

Keats, George, To : written in sickness, 251. 

Keats, To Thomas, 245. 

King Lear once again, on sitting down to read, 

40. 
King Stephen : A Dramatic Fragment, 192. 
Kosciusko, To, 34. 

La Belle Dame sans merci, 139. 

Ladies, To some, 3. 

Lady seen for a few moments at Vauxhall, To 

a, 123. 
Lamla, 146. 
Last Sonnet, The, 232. 

Laurel crown, to a young Lady who sent me a, 7. 
Leander, On a Picture of, 38. 
Leaving some friends at an early hour, On, 9. 
Lines on the Mermaid Tavern, 40. 
Lines to Fanny, 214. 
Lines : ' Unfelt, unseen, unheard,' 37. 
Lines written in the Highlands, after a visit to 

Burns's country, 246, 
Little Extempore, A, 249, 
Lock of Milton's Hair, On seeing a, 39. 
Lovers, A Party of, 251. 

Maia, Fragment of an Ode to, 119. 
Mathew, George Felton, Epistle to, 9. 
Meg Merrilies, 243. 
Melancholy, Ode on, 12G. 
Mermaid Tavern, Lines on the, 40. 
Milton's Hair, On seeing a lock of, 39. 
Modern Love, 238. 

Nightingale, Ode to a, 144. 
NUe, To the, 41, 



O, I am frighten'd with most hateful thoughts ! 

240, 
O ! were I one of the Olympian twelve, 239. 
Ode : ' Bards of Passion and of Mirth,' 125. 
Ode on a Grecian Urn, 134. 
Ode on Indolence, 135. 
Ode on Melancholy, 126. 
Ode to a Nightingale, 144. 
Ode to Apollo, 6. 
Ode to Fanny, 137. 
Ode to Maia, Fragment of an. 119. 
Ode to Psyche, 142. 
On a Picture of Leander, 38. 
On Death, 1, 
On Fame, 142, 

On first looking into Chapman's Homer, 9. 
On hearing the Bagpipe, and seeing The 

Stranger played at Inverary, 246, 
On leaving some friends at an early hour, 9. 
On Leigh Hunt's Poem The Story of Rimini, 

38, 
On Oxford, 252. 
On receiving a Curious Shell and a Copy of 

Verses, 4. 
On seeing a Lock of Milton's Hair, 39. 
On seeing the Elgin Marbles, 36. 
On sitting down to read King Lear once again, 

40, 
On the Grasshopper and Cricket, 35. 
On the Sea, 37. 

On . ' Think not of it, sweet one, so,' 38. 

On visiting the Tomb of Bums, 120. 
Otho the Great, 158. 

Party of Lovers, A, 251. 

Picture of Leander, On a, 38. 

Poems of 1818-1819, The, 110. 

Prophecy, A : To George Keats in America, 249. 

Psyche, Ode to, 142. 

RejTiolds, John Hamilton, Epistle to, 240. 
Reynolds, John Hamilton, To, 44. 
Robin Hood, 41. 
Ronsard, Translation from a Sonnet of, 12". 

Sea, on the, 37. 
Sharing Eve's Apple, 248. < 
Sleep, To, 142, 
Sleep and Poetry, 18, 
Solitude, Sonnet to, 12, 
Some Ladies, To, 3, 
Song about Myself, A, 244. 
Songs : 

Daisy's Song, 239, 

Faery Songs, 141. 

FoUy's Song, 240. 



INDEX OF TITLES 



469 



' Hush, hush ! tread softly ! hush, hush, my 


To Homer, 119. 


dear,' 120. 


To Hope, 5. 


' I had a dove, and the sweet dove died,' 125. 


To John Hamilton Reynolds, 44. 


' The stranger lighted from his steed,' 240. 


To Kosciusko, 34. 


Written on a blank page in Beaimiont and 


To Leigh Hunt, esq., 37. 


Fletcher's Works, 42. 


To my brother George, 26. 


Sonnets : 


To my Brothers, 33. 


Addressed to Benjamin Robert Haydon, 33. 


' To one who has been long in city pent,' 13. 


' After dark vapours have oppress'd our 


To Sleep, 142. 


plains,' 36. 


To Solitude, 12. 


' As from the darkening gloom a silver dove,' 


To Some Ladies, 3. 


12. 


To Spenser, 42. 


' Blue ! 't is the life of heaven, — the domain,' 


To the NUe, 41. 


43. 


To , ' Think not of it, sweet one, so,' 38. 


Dream, A, after reading Dante's Episode of 


What the Thrush said, 43. 


Paolo and Francesca, 138. 


' When I have fears that I may cease to be,' 


' Happy is England ! I could be content,' 35. 


39. 


' How many bards gild the lapses of time,' 8. 


' Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will 


• Human Seasons, The, 44. 


teU, 137. 


'If by duU rhymes our English must be 


Written in Answer to a Sonnet, 43. 


chain'd,' 144. 


Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition, 


' Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and 


35. 


there,' 8. 


Written in the Cottage where Burns was 


Last Sonnet, The, 232. 


born, 121. 


' Oh ! how I love, on a fair summer's eve,' 13. 


Written on the blank space at the end of 


On a Picture of Leander, 38. 


Chaucer's Tale of TJie Floure and the Left, 


On Fame, 142. 


36. 


On Fame, Another, 142. 


Written on the day that Mr. Leigh Hunt left 


On First Looking into Chapman's Homer, 9. 


prison, 5. 


On Hearing the Bagpipe and Seeing Tl\e 


Written upon the top of Ben Nevis, 123. 


Stranger played at Inverary, 24G. 


Specimen of an Liduction to a Poem, 27. 


On Leaving Some Friends at an Early Hour, 


Spenser, Imitation of, 1. 


9. 


Spenserian stanza, written at the close of Canto 


On Leigh Hunt's Poem Hie Story of Rimini, 


11., Book v., of The Faerie Queene, 8. 


38. 


Spenserian Stanzas on Charles Armitage Brown, 


On Seeing the Elgin Marbles, 36. 


250. 


On Sitting down to read King Lear once 


Spenser, To, 42. 


a^ain, 40. 


Stanzas: ' In a drear-nighted December,' 34. 


On the Grasshopper and Cricket, 35. 


Stanzas to Miss Wylie, 240. 


On the Sea, 37. 


Supplementary Vekse, 233. 


On Visiting the Tomb of Burns, 120. 




' The day is gone and all its sweets are gone ! ' 


To , ' Hadst thou liv'd in days of old,' 11. 


214. 


To a Cat, 252. 


To a Friend who sent me some Roses, 13. 


To Autumn, 213. 


To Ailsa Rock, 121. 


To Fanny, 215. 


To a Lady seen for a few Moments at Vanx- 


To Homer, 119. 


hall, 123. 


To Hope, 5. 


To a Young Lady who sent me a Laurel 


To John Hamilton Reynolds, 44. 


Crown, 7. 


To Leigh Hunt, esq., 37. 


To Byron, 2. 


To Sleep, 142. 


To Chatterton, 2. 


To Some Ladies, 3. 


To Fanny, 215. 


To Spenser, 42. 


To G. A. W., 34. 


To the Nile, 41. 


To George Keats, 251. 


To Thomas Keats, 245. 


To , ' Had I a man's fair form,' 26. 


Translation from a Sonnet of Ronsard, 123. 


To Haydon, 36. 


Two or Three Posies, 251. 



470 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Verses to Fanny Brawnb, 214. 

Verses written during a Tour in Scotland, 120. 

What the Thrush said, 43, 

Where 's the Poet ? Show him ! show him, 

238. 
Woman ! when I behold thee, flippant, vain, 2. 
Written in Answer to a Sonnet, 43. 



Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition, 35. 
Written in the Cottage where Bums was born, 

121. 
Written on the blank space at the end of 

Chaucer's tale of The Floure and the Lefe, 

36. 
Written upon the top of Ben Neris, 123. 
Wylie, Miss, Stanzas to, 240. 



....... 



INDEX TO LETTERS 



Agriculture, the effect of, on character, 392, 

393. 
Ailsa Rock, 312. 

Amena's letters to Tom Keats, 364, 366. 
America, in its relation to England, 332. 

Bailey, Benjamin, entertains Keats at Oxford, 
264 ; has a curacy, 271 ; his love affairs, 357 ; 
letters to, 270, 271, 273, 283, 290, 303, 305, 318, 
387. 

Ben Nevis, ascent of, 323, 324. 

Brawne, Fanny, first met by Keats, 340 ; de- 
scribed by Keats, 342 ; tiffs with, 353 ; ar- 
dently loved by Keats, 380, and in subse- 
quent letters commended to Brown, 448 ; 
letters to, 380, 382, 383, 384, 386, 388, 393, 413, 
414, 423, 424, 425, 426, 427, 428, 429, 430, 432, 
433, 436, 438, 440, 441. 

Brawne, Mrs., takes Brown's house, 340 ; Keats 
dines with her, 345 ; letter to, 446. 

Brown, Charles Armitage, Letters to, 410, 411, 
4S7, 444, 445, 447, 448. 

Burford Bridge, 275. 

Burns, Robert, visit to the country of, 308, 310, 
313, 315. 

Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, quoted, 397, 

Carisbrooke, Isle of Wight, 257. 

Charmian, 331. 

Chatterton, Thomas, Keats inscribes Endymion 

to his memory, 297 ; thinks' his the purest 

EngUsh, 404. 
Christ, Keats's thoughts on, 363. 
Claret, the charms of, 356. 
Clarke, Charles Cowden, Letters to, 255. 
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 272, 277. 
Cornwall, Barry, 431. 
Cripps, Mr., 269, 272, 275, 279, 281. 

Dante, Keats proposes to take him on a jour- 
ney, 306. 

Devonshire, Keats's opinion of, 290, 292, 294. 

Dilke, Charles Wentworth, interest of in his 
boy's education, 356 ; his absorption in his 
boy, 365, 386, 396 ; his character, 405 ; letters 
to, 273, 326, 351, 385, 409, 412, 431, 436. 

Elmes, James, letter to, 378. 

Endymion, begun by Keats, 260 ; the story of. 



told to Fanny Keats, 264 ; draws near a close, 
269 ; a test of his power of imagination, 270 ; 
completed, 281 ; to serve as a pioneer, 289 ; 
preface to, 296. 
Examiner, The, a battering ram against Chris- 
tianity, 258 ; has a good word on Wellington, 
262 ; Keats's notice in it of Reynolds's Peter 
Bell, 367. 

Fingal's Cave, 322. 

French Revolution, Keats on the, 398. 

Godwin, William, 346. 

Goldfish, Keats's fancy of a globe of, 372. 

Greek, Keats wishes to learn, 299. 

Haslam, William, letter to, 375. 

Haydon, Benjamin Roberts, Keats's first ac- 
quaintance with, 255 ; advises Keats to go 
into the country, 255 ; his quarrel with Hunt, 
270 ; proposes to make a frontispiece for En- 
dymion, 281 ; his effect on Keats, 296 ; money 
affairs with, 350 ; letters to, 260, 269, 279, 293, 
295, 349, 350, 351, 371, 373, 379, 412, 440, 443. 

HazUtt, William, on Southey, 259 ; thinks 
Shakespeare enough for us, 261 ; his Round 
Table, 269 ; his essay on commonplace peo- 
ple, 272; his lecture on poetry, 287, 289; 
prosecutes Blackwood, 327 ; his letter to Gif- 
ford, 358 ; his retort, 359. 

Hessey, James Augustus, letter to, 328. 

Hunt, Leigh, self-delusions of, 261 ; his quarrel 
with Haydon, 270 ; attack on, in Edinburgh 
Magazine, 273 ; his own name coupled with, 
273 ; his criticism of Endymion, 282 ; shows 
Keats a lock of Milton's hair, 284 ; his char- 
acter, 341 ; his conversation quoted, 343 ; let- 
ter to, 258. 

Hyperion, has too many Miltonic inversions, 408. 

Indiaman, Keats's prospect of service on an, 
377. 

Jeffrey, Misses M. and S., letter to, 304. 
Jeffrey, Mrs., letters to, 303, 376, 377. 

Kean, Edmund, in Richard III., 276; dis- 
cussed, 277. 
Keats, Fanny, letters to, 264, 308, 325, 326, 328, 



472 



INDEX TO LETTERS 



336, 337, 338, 350, 351, 352, 371, 372, 373, 374, 
375, 376, 378, 379, 381, 390, 414, 416, 417, 418, 
423, 424, 425, 427, 429, 433, 434, 435, 438, 439, 
440, 442, 444. 
Keats, George, his resolution to go to America, 
303 ; his marriage, 305 ; arrival in America, 
336 ; return to England on a brief visit, 418. 
Keats, George and Thomas, Letters to, 256, 276, 

277, 280, 281, 286, 288. 
Keats, George and Georgiana, letters to, 329, 

338, 353, 394, 418. 
Keats, John, goes to Southampton, 256 ; visits 
Carishrooke, 257 ; cannot exist without po- 
etry, 258 ; begins Endymion, 258 ; habits of 
reading and writing, 260 ; is painted in a pic- 
ture by Haydon, 261 ; borrows money of Tay- 
lor and Hessey, 262 ; leaves Margate for Can- 
terbury, 262 ; asks for more money, 263 ; goes 
to Oxford, 263 ; rows on the Isis, 267 ; makes 
good progress with Endymion, 269 ; goes to 
Hampstead, 270 ; regards his long poem as 
a test of power of imagination, 270 ; is at 
Dorking, 275 ; reads Shakespeare's sonnets, 
276; criticises West's painting of Death on 
the Pale Horse, 277 ; writes articles for 
The Champion, 277 ; calls on Wordsworth, 
278 ; passes in the first book of Endymion, 
281; goes to hear Hazlitt lecture on poetry, 
282 ; his recipe for a pleasant life, 286 ; is 
reading Voltaire and Gibbon, 289 ; goes to 
Devonshire, 290; goes to Honiton, 303; re- 
turns to Hampstead, 303 ; goes to Keswick 
by way of Ambleside, 307 ; climbs Skiddaw 
and goes to Carlisle, 307 ; visits the haunts of 
Bums, 308 ; visits the Meg Merrilies country, 
309 ; crosses to Ireland, 311 ; sees Ailsa crag, 
312 ; goes to Glasgow, 313 ; rehearses his 
route, 314 ; traverses Loch Lomond, 316 ; in 
view of the Hebrides, 317 ; reaches Inverary, 
318 ; comes to the Isle of Mull, 319 ; crosses 
the isle, 321; visits Fingal's Cave, 322; 
climbs Ben Nevis, 323; returns to Hamp- 
stead, 325 ; recounts his passage from Inver- 
ness, 330 ; has an encounter with an unnamed 
Lady, 334; notifies his brother George of 
their brother Tom's death, 338 ; meets Fanny 
Brawne for the first time, 340 ; describes her, 
342; borrows money of Taylor, 349; lends 
money to Haydon, 350 ; goes to Chichester, 
353; goes to the consecration of a chapel, 
.355 ; considers the question of going to Edin- 
burgh and studying medicine, 361 ; considers 
also the plan of going as surgeon on an India- 
man, 377 ; is obliged to refuse money to Hay- 
don, 379 ; goes to Shanklin, Isle of Wight, 
380 ; describes his life there, 381 ; goes to 
Winc> ?ster, 387 ; engaged on Hyperion, 387 ; 



works with Brown on a tragedy, 389 ; de- 
scribes Winchester, 391 ; goes up to London, 
393; returns to Winchester, 394; describes 
an election there, 400 ; plays a joke on Brown, 
406 ; gives up Hyperion, 408 ; returns to town, 
413 ; is attacked with illness, 423 ; is ordered 
to Italy, 439 ; reaches Rome, 448. 
Keats, Thomas, sickness of, 275, 335, 337 ; his 
death, 338 ; his affair with Wells, 364 ; letters 
to, 307, 310, 312, 316, 320, 322. 

Milton, John, influence of, on the world, 294 ; 
compared with Wordsworth, 301. 

Orinda, the Matchless, referred to and quoted, 

268. 
Oxford, visited by Keats, 264; described by 

him, 264. 

Philips, Mrs., author of The Matchless Orinda, 
268. 

Poetry, Keats cannot exist without, 258 ; unable 
to talk of it, 261 ; the quality of length m, 
270, 271 ; a few axioms concerning, 289 ; the 
relief brought by, 328; its effect on charac- 
ter, 336. i 

Psyche, on Ode to, 371. I 

Quarterly, The, attempt of, to crush Keats, 330. 

Religion, Keats's ideas abont, 291. 
Reynolds, Jane, letters to, 265, 326. 
Reynolds, John Hamilton, letters to, 255, 257, 

267, 269, 275, 285, 287, 292, 299, 314, 327, 390, 

428. 
Reynolds, Mariane and Jane, letter to, 263. 
Reynolds, Mrs., letter to, 349. 
Rice, James, letters to, 294, 337, 416, 426. 

Scott, Walter, Keats's opinion of, 279. 

Severn, Joseph, a friend of Keats, 255 ; letters 
to, 373, 415, 416. 

Shakespeare, Keats finds a head of, 257; ob- 
serving his birthday, 258, 287 ; his Christian- 
ity, 259 ; a presiding genius, 260 ; enough for 
us, 261 ; his sonnets, 276 ; supposed seal of, ^j 

293. m 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 'telling strange stones 
of the deaths of kings,' 259 ; his Queen Mab, 
277 ; letter to, 442. 

Snook, Mr., 267, 353, 354. 

Soul-making, 369. 

Southampton, journey to, 256. 

Staffer, 318, 320, 321. 

Taylor, Anne and Jane, poems by, 265. 
Taylor and Hessey, letters to, 262, 263, 290,293. 



INDEX TO LETTERS 



473 



'T'aylor, John, letters to, 281, 284, 286, 289, 298, 
.'^Oe, 349, 389, 392, 415, 437, 443, 444. 

/'elocipede, The, 361. 

'' Way's, Mr., chapel and its consecration, 355. 
/ Welling:ton, the Duke of, discussed in The Ex- 
aminer, 262. 
Wells, Charles J., 278; his relations to Tom 

Keats, 364, 366. 
West, Benjamin, 277. 



Winchester, description of, 387, 389, .S91. 

Woodhouse, Richard, letters to, 336, 348. 

Wordsworth, William, not to be detracted 
from, 262 ; read by Keats on the Isis, 267 ; 
criticism of his ' Gipsy,' 272 ; rank of The Ex- 
cursion, 280 ; criticised for his theories, 285, 
286 ; his effect on the lakes, 293 ; compared 
with Milton, 301 ; his place in the Mansion 
of Many apartments, 302 ; his home at Rydal, 
307. 

WyUe, Mrs., letter to, 324. 



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